Dr Grantz is In
by Reverberating Winds
Summary: The Espada, powerful and dignified, Aizen's infallible army, are not as imposing as they seem. In fact, like anyone else, they are stricken with maladies and injuries at most inconvenient times that only one person can fix. His name? Szayel Aporro Grantz.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: It's Not a Mental Malady**

Bleach is not mine. Duh.

Holy crap, I started this fic back in like...September...but never finished it. Oh well! I finally did.

_By the way...those who are savvy in medicine will like this! _

* * *

Ulquiorra knew something was wrong as soon as he regained consciousness from sleeping a good twelve hours. He didn't feel right…

Frowning, Ulquiorra kicked the covers off with exasperation. He felt hot and sweaty, and slightly disoriented as he propped himself up with his elbows. His room spun around, and he immediately shut his eyes, hoping to stop the nausea forming in the pit of his unstable stomach. He swallowed, and his mouth tasted like sand and his throat felt like sandpaper. Like sandpaper on fire, ouch.

Ulquiorra grimaced minimally, and then collapsed back onto his bed. There was no way he would be able to attend Aizen's meeting today.

OOOOOO

Meanwhile, the well known (and only scientist) in Hueco Mundo, Szayel Aporro Grantz was sitting in his laboratory, mixing some chemicals together, and all the while ranting with whoever would listen. Meaning, his fraccion were sitting there, waiting until he finished. They were messing around and laughing gutturally—they were not paying attention, really.

"…such a self centered bastard…and that is why you don't g—"

Szayel stopped suddenly, all insults catching in his throat, a look of disgust crossing over his face. He looked as if someone had forced sour milk down his throat. His eyebrow quirked downward.

Szayel, as everyone knew, was always on top of all the scientific things happening in the oh so boring Hueco Mundo. If a tiny speck of dust landed on his beaker, he'd know.

In other words, Szayel sensed a germ. A virus, a bactertium. Something impure lurking around.

It was floating around Las Noches. He could smell it, and he could feel it. Szayel didn't like it one bit, actually, he couldn't concentrate on his work. Szayel slammed his flask down on his table and growled. His eyes narrowed dangerously behind his glasses.

"What is this infernal virus that floats in the air…?" he murmured to himself.

He looked over his shoulder at his fraccion, all with smiling faces, and few picking their noses. They waved at him and giggled stupidly.

Szayel looked away, frowning, and then finally decided to search Las Noches for "this infernal virus".

"Fraccion!" he barked. "Touch anything and you die. I'll be right back."

Slipping his lab coat off his shoulders, her set out to inspect the place…

OOOOOO

Aizen sat at the stupidly long table he held his meetings at. Doing a head count, he realized that Ulquiorra was gone. He didn't care that Szayel and quite a few others were gone. Oh no, not at all. They were nothing compared to his dearest Ulquiorra…

Rephrased: Holy crap WHERE is Ulquiorra?

Aizen blinked heavily and sucked on the inside of his cheek briefly.

"Gin," he said finally. "Where's Ulquiorra? Does anyone know? …Grimmjow, sit up. I don't want such imperfect posture. And don't lean so far over like that. It makes you look like you have no spine…anyway. Where's Ulquiorra?"

"I haven't seen him," Stark said, stifling a yawn.

Halibel agreed with a nod.  
Aizen started to panic. Though no one could tell, of course, he simply nodded.

"But…he was here yesterday…and…that woman…he never sleeps in past seven…"Aizen mumbled, trying to connect this odd happening to his suspicions. His brain malfunctioned when he caught sight of Grimmjow once again.

"GRIMMJOW! I told you to sit up!" Aizen scolded severely.

"It's not my fault I feel like shit! Damn, what do I have to do to be left alone?" Grimmjow retorted caustically. He shot Aizen a very annoyed glance.

"…wait, what…?"

Aizen tried to relax and studied Grimmjow _very _carefully. He squinted and leaned forward in his chair.

Grimmjow's otherwise expressive face was dead of any emotion (he resembled Ulquiorra a little). Dark circles stained his skin under his eyes, and he looked much paler than usual—except for the pink patches on his cheeks. He stared at Aizen with a blank, somewhat irritated gaze. He kept sighing and making all these exaggerated faces, rubbing his temples and frowning, shifting in his seat. And coughing rather heavily as well.

"Grimmjow…"Aizen murmured, beckoning him over, "Come over here."

Grimmjow sighed deeply, and slid out of his seat. With heavy footsteps, he made his way to Aizen. Aizen looked him over, and then placed a hand on Grimmjow's forehead. His skin was warm and pasty. Aizen, grimacing, drew back, and wiped his hand on his hakama very conspicuously. Grimmjow was noticeably offended.

"You're warm. Wow, you _are _sick." Aizen said dumbly. He tipped his head to the side, almost looking concerned, if that was possible.

Grimmjow grunted and rubbed his eyes.

"Mmmm."

"What do you feel?"

"Eh. I'm fine…yeah, I feel terrible," Grimmjow said with a short wave of his hand. "but I just need some sleep."

"Yes, yes…go do that…" Aizen said, concerned. "You're dismissed."

Aizen's eyes swept the rest of the table worriedly. Noitora looked alright; he was messing around with his bracelets and humming a song to himself. His foot was tapping to slow, steady beat on the floor. Halibel was…being Halibel; all was fine there. Stark was sleepy…which was not surprising. Szayel was absent. Ulquiorra was absent. Ulquiorra was _never _absent. He was stoic, quiet, and very obedient. Ulquiorra would be there at Aizen's word.

"Have any of you seen Ulquiorra?" Aizen asked the remaining people at the table.

"No."

"Nah."

"I saw him last night. I bet he just raped that girl."

"Noitora, please."

"Well, excuse me! How do you know he's not bedridden by an STD?"

Aizen and Halibel threw Noitora the nastiest looks they could muster, and shook their heads, tut-tutting at his risqué insinuation. Noitora shrugged, palms up. He tried to look innocent, and pouted a little. He did not say anything, but he batted his eyes and gave Aizen his signature kiss-ass stare. Aizen replied with a harrumph.

"I lack my Espada." He said heavily. "And where are the others? Halibel, tell me."

"Zomari—mission. Yami went along with him, Oldie accompanied as well. Aaroniero is dead. Szayel in his lab, busy. Ulquiorra's whereabouts are unknown." Halibel recited robotically.

Aizen nodded very slowly, allowing the information to register in his cluttered mind.

"Would one of you be so kind as to fetch Szayel for me? I do believe I would like to talk to him."

Noitora took care of this: he sent Szayel a text message. And with Aizen's permission, the remaining Espada left.

OOOOOO

Szayel jumped a little when his cell phone vibrated viciously in his pocket. He waited for another vibration, signaling an actual phone call, but none came: it was a text message. He plucked the phone out of his pocket, read the text message, and was on his way to the meeting room.

OOOOOO

Aizen was biting his nails furiously. He couldn't even concentrate on his tea. Not only was his biting his nails, he was giving himself hangnails and cuts and nicks with the extreme gnawing action he had going on. He stared at his tea, and wished he could bite his nails and sip his tea at the same time, but of course that was impossible. He nearly jumped out of his seat and ran to Szayel when he saw Szayel stalk into the room smoothly. But Aizen masked his anxiety with a cool and collected face.

"You called, Aizen-sama?" Szayel said, dipping into a graceful bow.

"Yes." Aizen said tersely. "Grimmjow is sick."

Szayel blinked his yellow eyes a few times.

"Is he really?"

"Yes. And Ulquiorra did not show up this morning. At the meeting. You didn't either, but I know you were busy." Aizen said, interlacing his fingers. He gave Szayel a fixed, firm gaze.

"Quite." Szayel said curtly, coldly. "I sensed something impure this morning. A malignant microorganism floating around. As for Ulquiorra, I don't know where he is. Perhaps we should check?"

"Of course," Aizen said with a nod.

He slid out of his chair and flanked Szayel, who was walking at a leisurely pace up to Ulquiorra's room. Aizen wished he would go faster…poor Ulquiorra might've been in a terrible plight.

"Szayel," Aizen said in a very strained voice. "Could we—could we hurry up, _please_?"

"Sure." Szayel looked away, hiding his face from view. A sickly sardonic smile twisted his face. He worked hard to keep in a snigger, but he lengthened his strides and they were in front of Ulquiorra's room in no time.

Aizen and Szayel stared at the large white door, closed. They stood there, as if sizing it up. Aizen had the tips of the fingers on his right hand in his mouth, gnawing what was left of his nails.

Szayel rapped on the door, gently but loud enough for Ulquiorra inside to hear. They waited for an answer, but heard nothing.

"You open it." Aizen said urgently.

"No." Szayel said, with a quick shake of his head. "_You _open it."

Aizen winced, tightened his grip around the doorknob. But then he pushed it downward, leaned his weight on the door, and eased it open. Szayel, who was taller than him, craned his head and around Aizen, and they both peered into the dark, cold room. On a bed against the eastern wall, they could make out Ulquiorra's jet head among the white sheets he was tangled in.

Szayel prodded Aizen's shoulder, indicating he should go in. Aizen took a small step in, and relaxed once he saw that Ulquiorra was alive. An arm came out from the bundle of sheets, and was laid over something.

Szayel, instead of tiptoeing in, sashayed right into the room, and even turned on the lamp on Ulquiorra's bedside table.

"There you are." Szayel said warmly.

He studied Ulquiorra very curiously.

Ulquiorra's arm was slung over the top half of his face, and he was lying on his back. The corners of his mouth were turned down. He made an "mmm" sound in reply to Szayel.

"What's wrong with you?" Szayel asked with a frown. He came closer, and bent over Ulquiorra. Aizen scurried to Szayel's side.

"I…feel _terrible_." Ulquiorra said, his voice barely above a whisper. He removed the arm from over his eyes, and stared up at them both. His eyebrows seemed to be turned up a worried, pained look.

Szayel placed a hand on his forehead. He looked up at the ceiling, making some calculations.

"I'd say you're at one-oh-one point…four." Szayel estimated. His attention returned to Ulquiorra. "Talk to me. Name the symptoms."

"Nausea, dizziness—plenty of that—and my throat is killing me…my mouth is dry. And I have this horrid, throbbing feeling in my throat and headache to accompany that." Ulquiorra said. He inhaled deeply.

"A pounding pain, sharp pain…?" Szayel prompted.

"A migraine pain…pounding."

"Where?"

"Here." Ulquiorra placed his hand on the right side of his head, about 4 inches above his right eye. He closed his eyes.

"Ah." Szayel looked him over. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday."

"When did you start feeling this way?"

"Yesterday night. I took a pill and went to bed."

"But I assume you can't stomach a pill now?"

"That is correct."

Szayel hummed, and pulled back. He rubbed put a finger to his lip in thought, and sucked on his cheek. He was thinking hard.

"Strange…" he murmured. "Anyway. Grimmjow is sick as well. I'm going to go ask him. Apparently, this is a viral organism, and it travels fast. Rest for now. Drink water, if you can take it."

"Is he going to be okay?" Aizen asked fiercely. He glanced at the bedridden Ulquiorra.

Szayel nodded, scowling.

"Ulquiorra, I'll be back to swab your throat. It could be strep." He turned to Aizen. "Now, let's go talk to Grimmjow."

OOOOOO

They found Grimmjow in his room, sitting on his bed and watching TV. He was holding an icepack up to his forehead. His bleary eyes were focused on the screen, and occasionally he sniffed and coughed. He hand his sheets wrapped around him.

"Hi, Grimmjow." Szayel said rather greasily, striding into the room with Aizen behind. "How are you?"

Grimmjow shrugged and replied with a raspy, "Eh."

And they both interpreted that as an 'okay'.

"Still feeling crappy?" Szayel asked.

"Yeah." Grimmjow replied, sighing.

"Ulquiorra feels 'terrible' as well." Szayel said. He mentioned Ulquiorra's name to see if that would spark anything in Grimmjow, seeing they were mortal rivals.

"Fuck yes," Grimmjow said with a satisfied smirk. "He's worse than me. Hah—" Grimmjow's laughter was interrupted as he starting hacking violently. "—Hahah! Sorry, choked on some phlegm there…"

"I see that." Szayel answered, giving him a stern look. He stared at Grimmjow, and his eyebrows quirked downward in a frown. "Hey, Grimmjow, name your symptoms."

"Headache. Muscle pains, fever, phlegm-y cough…and I'm having issues breathing. And my phlegm is a weird color." Grimmjow said. He pounded his chest with his fist and took a deep breath.

Szayel raised an eyebrow and said, "Oh reeeeeally?"

"Yah really." Grimmjow answered darkly. "Don't believe me?"

"It's not that," Szayel said defensively, "But I don't think you need more sleep at all. In fact, let's get you an x-ray. Come on!"

Szayel beckoned to Grimmjow, and Grimmjow, perplexed, followed after them both. As they went down to Szayel's lab, Aizen started to relax a little, but he was still jumpy after seeing Ulquiorra. Then a question came to mind.

"Szayel? Are they both contagious?" Aizen asked, slowing down to the pace of Szayel's easy mosey. Really. He seemed so unhurried and relaxed, especially with an asylum of bacteria coughing next to him.

"Mm." Szayel shrugged. "I would think so, they both have fevers." To prove his point, Szayel put a hand on Grimmjow's forehead. Grimmjow sighed happily.

"It's cold," he said, smiling stupidly. He pointed to Szayel's hand.

"Yup." Szayel removed his hand. "And there you have it. We're here."

Szayel was the only person that could walk around the lab without getting lost. His lab was HUGE. It had so many different sections—the quarantine, the engineering, the pathogen suite, the chem site, and many others. Aizen didn't really like the feel of it: it was too cold and impersonal for him as they would through many dim corridors. Aizen made a point of pointing at the jars containing pickled organs. Grimmjow didn't really seem to care; he was busy complaining about chest pains. Szayel didn't listen to any of them, but he passed one of his fraccion along the way.

"Hey, you," Szayel snapped, "go to the medicine cabinet and fetch me some clarithromycin. The pill form, under the C's. Go tell Lumina to get a swab test from Ulquiorra, too. Tonsils, swab both and bring me a description of what his tonsils look like."

Aizen and Grimmjow exchanged confused glances. Aizen looked horrified, and Grimmjow, a little disgusted.

"Ah! Here. Szayel pushed a metal door open and led them into a relatively large room with high ceilings and dim lighting. Some strange gray contraption was suspended over a flat, hard table. Grimmjow's lip curled, looking at it.

"That looks hard. Ew."

"Well, of course!" Szayel said cheerfully. "It's made of metal, haha! Now, go lay there…Aizen-sama, stay where you are…"

Aizen was left standing in the doorway dumbly. He blinked and looked around curiously.

And Szayel nearly had to wrestle Grimmjow onto the table. He was being dysfunctional, and complaining about how hard it was and how long it would take. Szayel was arguing back bitterly. He succeeded by pushing Grimmjow onto the table with the help of adrenaline and then stunning him as he threw a lead apron at him, knocking the wind out of Grimmjow. He cried out in pain and then found himself unable to take a breath. Szayel giggled inside as he saw a look of panic come over Grimmjow's face—it was fleeting, but funny.

"Asshole!" Grimmjow panted. He threw Szayel a frenetic, sharp glance. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you!"

"Hold still!" Szayel snapped, holding him down. "It's an _x-ray_. I'm not going to operate on you, geez. And it's not going to hurt."

"Pssh, whatever!" Grimmjow scoffed. Even so, he obeyed. He laid still as Szayel positioned the hanging contraption over his chest. Szayel seemed to be in deep thought: he seemed to be scowling and his top teeth were slightly visible as he bit his lip.

"Okay, now stay _very _still. Don't move, don't breathe for a few seconds."

Grimmjow watched Szayel out of the corner of his eye. Szayel scurried back behind some wall, dragging Aizen along with him. The next thing he heard was a quick, shrill beep, and a slightly longer whirring sound.

"Done!" Szayel announced, waltzing out from behind the wall. He took the lead apron off of Grimmjow and pulled him up rather affectionately.

"Now what?" asked Grimmjow, teetering a little.

And Szayel disappeared behind the metal wall, returning in a flash holding the x-rays. Grimmjow could see his ribs faintly, as the x-ray wasn't held up to the light yet. Szayel tipped it upward against the light, and studied. He hummed deeply. Grimmjow stood next to him, looking on curiously. He had no idea what Szayel was looking at.

"Grimmjow, how long have you had the cough?" Szayel demanded.

"Oh…like…two weeks…but then it got worse a few days ago and fever attacked me yesterday…" Grimmjow replied.

"Don't ignore such things!" Szayel said in a rather shrill voice. "Double pneumonia!"

"Which means…?" Aizen asked eagerly, scurrying to Szayel's side. He looked pretty worried.

"Pneumonia in not one, but both lungs." Szayel said flatly. He tucked the x-ray under his arm and shook his head. "What a disgrace. Grimmjow, you need to take better care of yourself!"

"But I—"

"Especially if you're coughing up weird phlegm, my goodness! And fevers and chest pains—"

"Sza—"

"Don't interrupt me!" shrieked Szayel. He opened his mouth to start the reprimands, but instead gasped a little when his fraccion tapped his shoulder and held out a small bottle to him.

"Oh, thank you!" Szayel took it from him. "Where was I—oh yes, those symptoms are serious. Double pneumonia, this will take a while to clear up. By the way, it's bacterial too. Get ready for a crapload of antibiotics! Anyway…yes, well, I think I have my point across, right?"

Grimmjow nodded grimly, snatching the bottle from Szayel. He was ready for his fun time.

"Two doses a day, every twelve hours. You're _extremely _contagious right now. I will send for a servant to get your meals daily. Quarantine will last two weeks, and call me if you experience difficulty breathing—oh, side effects are to be expected—dizziness, all that…"

Grimmjow had never heard someone talk so fast or energetically.

"Okay…" Grimmjow replied slowly. He made a face and tried to leave the room without Szayel noticing.

"One more thing!" he called after Grimmjow. "No socialization with anyone! I'll be back to check on you tomorrow! Have fun!"

Grimmjow gave Szayel his middle finger halfheartedly, bust Szayel was already distracted by Lumina, who had returned with the sacred swabs.

"Thanks," Szayel said. "Describe them to me."

"Red with white spots and dark red spots on the roof of his mouth."

"Hm. Most likely strep…no one here has mono. Aizen-sama?"

Aizen was staring at Szayel with wide eyes.

"My little Ulquiorra…in pain…?"

"Yes." Szayel said irritably, crossing the hallway with Aizen on his heels. "Strep is very painful for some people. Stand back—just give me a sec to examine the swabs…"

Szayel slid the swabs under a microscope. He adjusted it a little, and pressed his eye to it. Szayel made a satisfied sound in his throat.

"What? What was that?" Aizen demanded.

"Strep," he declared, "It is, in fact, streptococcus type A beta hemolytic…I can tell by the bacteria cultures, here, and where they are…yep."

Szayel pulled back, passing right by Aizen and striding off to another room down the hallway. Aizen rolled his eyes and followed. He didn't really want to be alone here. But before he walked into the room, Szayel came out, holding a rather large bottle. He was reading the label.

"He's going to get a huge dose." Szayel stated as they exited the medical ward and into the 'foyer' of his lab. "Eight hundred seventy five milligrams, twice a day, of amoxicillin-clavulanate. Oooh, I pity him. That's going to kill his kidneys."

"No!"

"I meant it figuratively." Szayel said firmly. "He'll need to say hydrated"

Aizen sighed his worries away.

"Thank you very much, Szayel." Aizen said sincerely. He held the door open for Szayel as he strode out of the lab. Szayel even looked a bit smug.

"Not a problem," Szayel said with an extremely saccharine smile. He looked like smiling for Aizen was killing him. Aizen didn't notice.

"Now, if you will excuse me," Aizen said, tossing his head of shiny brown hair, "I have some paperwork to do. Tell Ulquiorra I will let him remain in bed for as long as he needs to—how long will he be contagious?"

"Let's see…twenty four hours after his first dose of the medication. Chances are he won't be feeling well, though." Szayel answered thoughtfully.

"Oh! Well, tell him I'll let him stay in bed for a week." Aizen nodded, looking at the ceiling as if he were trying to remember something. "That is all."

And with that, Aizen shunpoed to his office, leaving Szayel alone in the corridor. The smile fell off Szayel's face the second he left. Szayel, unwilling to walk a marathon to get to Ulquiorra's room, sonido'ed himself to the very front of Ulquiorra's door. "…control freak…little fucker…" Szayel murmured as he lumbered into the room.

"Ulquiorra, you've got strep…" but Szayel stopped, seeing it was futile to talk to Ulquiorra.

Ulquiorra had fallen asleep. And Szayel was pleased to see he looked a little better. Lumina must've brought something for him. Szayel decided to scrawl Ulquiorra a quick note about dosage and his disease and other things (the noted ended up using three pieces of notebook paper—two pages describing strep type A beta hemolytic and one page describing the necessary things).

Szayel, satisfied with himself, strode out of the room, closing the door behind him. He stretched his arms and yawned. That was quite an adventure. Time for relaxation: screwing around with the chemical structure of uranium…but as he walked down the hallway, he heard fast footsteps and heavy breathing. In fact, he nearly collided with Tesla as he rounded a corner.

"Szayel-sama!" panted Tesla, doubling over to catch his breath. "Noitora just sliced open his hand cooking! Come stitch him up, it's a bloodbath! And—and Halibel is dying! Her lower abdomen hurts!"

What do I look like to you, a paramedic, Szayel thought. The corners of his mouth turned down and he sighed heavily. Radon would have to wait. He actually felt like exposing Tesla to uranium right now, but he couldn't…damn. Oh well. Being a scientist has its fun, more often than not. Besides, it's not everyday Aizen's elite forces get sick and cut themselves.

* * *

Oh, man. Can anyone tell I REALLY want to work in the medical field, or what? And by the way, I have to take those 875 mg pills for MY streptococcus type A bet hemolytic infection a few weeks ago. Amox-clav sucks. It effs up your stomach, BAD.

Anyway! Thanks for reading, and **reviews** are really appreciated!

**_Will also be CONTINUED._**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Oh, Doctor, Save Me!

Disclaimer in ch 1

Hey, if you guys get confused, I have some refs for you at the end of the chapter. I had lots of fun writing this, and **I may even continue it for my own enjoyment.** I had too much fun researching. But, don't expect anything soon. Tonsillectomy and Adenoidectomy is tomorrow, so I'll be drugged up off of Lortab and Motrin for a good two weeks.

...I AM SO EXCITED**.**

Anyway, go read.

* * *

Szayel was being dragged to the kitchen by a totally ballistic Tesla. Tesla was known for his severe OCD, but this was insane. It was as if he expected to have Szayel 'operate' in a kitchen. He was speaking quickly and frenetically, barely stopping to breathe and making all these dramatic gestures. Szayel wondered how he could talk so fast while running and forgetting to breathe.

"—everywhere! I'm surprised he's not dead, but he went like WHAM with that knife!" Tesla panted, eyes bulging. He stopped momentarily to gulp down some breaths. "He actually screamed! It was terrible!"

Tesla was running at Szayel's walking pace. Szayel didn't really seem to care about what was going on. He seemed very relaxed, actually. Szayel rounded a corner sharply, Tesla on his heels, and he could already hear voices from the kitchen nearby.

Confidently, Szayel walked straight into the kitchen, and surveyed the scene in front of him bemusedly.

Noitora was at the kitchen island. His thumb's knuckle was at his mouth and he was wincing slightly as he singlehandedly cut up a carrot. The knife was slipping and Noitora was muttering curse words past his thumb. Stark and Halibel were nearby, sniggering.

"Nice going," Stark said, taking a big sip of his soda.

"Fuuuuuuuuuck you." Noitora replied, hinting a smile. He glanced up as Szayel and Tesla cruised right into the kitchen.

"Noitora! I've brought you a surgeon!" Tesla announced.

Noitora frowned and gave Tesla a mildly annoyed, irritated look. He shifted his gaze to Szayel, and shrugged. Then he looked down and continued to cut.

"For what, you retard?" Noitora demanded.

"For your cut! It'll need stitches, no? Come look, Szayel."

Szayel was standing in the doorway, still. His arms were folded, and his eyes were cold as he gazed angrily at Tesla. His eyes were on the small cut on Noitora's thumb, which was about two centimeters long and very shallow.

"You expect me," Szayel said slowly, after an awkward silence, "to heal _that_?"

Tesla blinked, bemused.

"Well yes, yes, I do." He said with a nod.

Szayel gave a mirthless laugh, and turned on his heel to leave.

"Cuts like that are what band aids are for." Szayel said with a wave of his hand.

"Well…" Tesla was thinking of something to say, but as evidently struggling to find the right words. "It looked bad!"

"You're a total and complete retard." Noitora said with a chuckle. "I told you there was nothing wrong with me."

"Oh..." Tesla looked slightly embarrassed, but he looked even a little bit defiant and indignant about Noitora's condition.

"Although," Szayel said, wagging his finger, "before you do anything with meat, cover up that cut. Open wounds bring quite a torrent of risks, and I highly doubt you'd like to be infected."

Noitora shrugged and continued to cut the carrot like nothing had ever happened. As for Szayel, he stole a few pieces of the carrot and smuggled some beer out of the kitchen before returning to his laboratory, where he could finally screw around with some electrons.

()()()()()()()()()

Two weeks later, Szayel was coming back into his lab after a large, healthy breakfast. He took a few sips of his coffee, and walked right into his lab with a new spring in his step. His hair was swishing side to side, and a little smile graced his face. He looked like a relaxed, model scientist. Not that he wasn't, but he had a history of episodes of disorganization and spazz attacks. Especially if he didn't get to do the things he wanted to do.

Lumina and Verona flanked him as his proceeded down the hallway.

"Sir, we got a distress call from Miss Halibel." Lumina said, handing Szayel a death certificate from a recent autopsy.

"Mmm?" he hummed, fixing the cuff on his lab coat. There was a slight pain that was beginning in his stomach, but he had it last night, too."About what?"

"Something about severe pain."

"Where?"

"She didn't say, she just said 'code red'." Lumina replied.

Szayel clenched his jaw and was just about ready to kill himself. That woman. A hypochondriac that wouldn't even take her medicine.

"Well, call her back and tell her to take the Midol™. I just checked her for ovarian cysts last week, and I found nothing." Szayel said stonily.

"Yes, sir." Lumina answered. "By the way, you've got two dead Arrancar that need a necropsy."

"Wonderful." Szayel said stiffly, walking ahead of Lumina. He turned sharply into his 'pharmacy', and took off into the shelves of medicine.

"Ahh, Lumina, if you could, get me the antacid tablets…" Szayel asked, frowning. He laid a hand over his stomach, sighing. Quite frankly, he did not feel too well. There was a stirring pain near or in his stomach. Not enough to make him feel nauseous, but enough to cause him to lose interest in his work. All he wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep, but he had to work to do: autopsies, testing a new metallic compound, and of course, filling out scientific theories, and many other little tasks that ganged up on him daily.

Lumina placed the tablets in his hand, and he tossed them into his mouth without a second thought. Straight from there, he took off downstairs to the morgue, his least favorite place in his laboratory.

Upon pushing opening the pressurized metal doors, and sweet and sour scent of decay seeped into his clothing, lungs and hair. It was cold, as all morgues were. He flicked on the light switch. Halogen lights, set in a line, went straight down a hallway with small, metal doors like lockers stacked on top of each other.

Szayel went down another flight of stairs, passed another set of metal doors, and was hit by the scent of fresh blood and bleach. The tiled floor had just been cleaned, and the autopsy tables were weighed down with the bodies of the Arrancar.

Suiting up and jamming his right hand into a chain mail glove, he took the prosector's knife firmly in hand, and made the famous Y-incision.

By the time he finished with the first autopsy, there was a searing pain in Szayel's abdomen. It was threatening to shift to the lower right side of his body, but the pain was biding its time in doing so. Szayel, unable to continue, stripped himself of his apron and gloves, storming out of the pit and the morgue as he ran up to his pharmacy. There had to be something here to ease his pain. Rummaging through the tiny bottles, he gasped as the pain made itself comfortable in the lower right side of his abdomen.

Then it came to him: appendicitis.

He frowned at the thought and gritted his teeth. Who would do the surgery on him? He couldn't do it on himself. But there was no one capable of doing the surgery.

"I'm being stupid," Szayel said to himself, taking deep breaths and walking out of the pharmacy. "It's not an appendicitis…" his voice caught as he felt the throbbing explode. "Wait, the pressing test…"

Szayel pressed down on the location of the ache, and then let go. Leaning against the wall and doubling over, he knew it was true: appendicitis.

"Shit." He hissed, taking shaky steps to his brother. His brother, Ilforte, was just entering the lab, unconcerned, playing his gameboy.

"Hey, Ilforte…"

"The hell happened to you?" Ilforte questioned, passing by him with a flourish.

"Appendicitis." Szayel said stiffly, leaning against the wall. He gave him a small grin. "If you could, get me ready for surgery…"

Ilforte stared at him, bewildered. He looked at Szayel, and then at the door to the operating room, as if making a connection. The corner of his lips turned down and he scowled.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm damn sure!" Szayel said rather loudly. "I'm running a fever, damn it!"

"O-Okay!" Ilforte said, raising his hands defensively. "But who'll do your surgery? I'm not going to. All I can do is anesthesia."

"Who cares? I'm getting the Espada to do it!" Szayel said defensively, attempting to walk into the operating room.

"You're really…you really do have it, then. If you're willing to have the Espada do it, then fine. Lumina and Verona, please having the following people show up here, stat: Ulquiorra, Grimmjow, Stark, Halibel, and Noitora." Ilforte said firmly. He turned to his younger brother, a hint of a smile on his face. "Alright, you, when was the last time you ate, when did the symptoms, begin, and…"

()()()()()()()

Halibel and Stark were rushing down to Szayel's laboratory upon Szayel's distress call. The two were walking quickly, fists balled, tense strides, and of course a slight bit of wonder as to why they were being called. Noitora was lagging behind them, annoyed and condescending as usual.

"Twenty bucks the guy wants to use us as guinea pigs for some crackpot drug." He muttered angrily.

"I doubt that." Halibel said smoothly, flipping her long, blonde hair. "I think he's in serious distress."

"Oh, you think so?" Noitora sneered.

"Yes, I do." Halibel replied. "Szayel has never asked us to try a new drug or genetically modify us, has he?"

"There's a first for everything…" Stark said thoughtfully, wagging a finger at her. Halibel scoffed and walked dutifully ahead. Stark and Noitora, feeling slightly worried, picked up the pace and followed Halibel right into the laboratory, only to be greeted by a sour faced Ilforte. Ilforte shifted his weight and huffed rather loudly as he saw the trio walk in.

"Here's the deal: Szayel's got an appendicitis."

"What the fuck's that?" Noitora said loudly, folding his arms.

"Inflammation of the appendix." Ilforte replied. "And guess what? Since he's the only damn surgeon here, he needs someone to operate on him. I can't do it because I'm supposed to monitor his vitals and the anesthesia. He's asked that you guys do it. Ulquiorra and Grimmjow are already suited up and ready to go."

"Wait, but how are we supposed to do it?" Stark asked, scowling incredulously. "I mean, do you expect us to just come in, cut him open, and deal with his appendix? I don't even know what the appendix looks like or what it is!"

"Duh. That's exactly what I expect. The appendix, is like…" Ilforte frowned and pointed to some generalized area on the lower right side of his torso. "Somewhere there. Anyway," Ilforte said with a smirk, "I can give you instructions, but Szayel's in the OR writing them down on a piece of paper for you. That is, if he hasn't passed out yet or thrown up all over himself, ha."

Stark and Noitora looked absolutely mortified. They stood there, stiff, gaping like fish out of water. Halibel, however, looked very cool and collected.

"Well, take us to the OR…" Stark muttered, making a vague gesture down Szayel's famous hallway.

"Are you on crack? We have to suit you up, and then scrub." Ilforte said with irritation, leading them down the hallway at a fast, erratic pace. He shoved them all into a room with a row of deep, stainless steel sinks. On the opposite wall, aprons, scrubs, masks and caps hung, waiting to be used.

Noitora made a small noise in the back of his throat. But Ilforte was guarding the door.

"Alright, people." He kicked the door shut and handed aprons to all three of them. They were quite long and a greenish color that looked like Ulquiorra's eyes. Put these on. I'll them for you while you wash your hands. Get some soap, and scrub up to mid forearm. And when I say scrub, I mean scrub."

Ilforte's hawkish gaze was on all of them as they did as told. He had his eye on Noitora, watching him very keenly, as he looked very uncomfortable and kept looking over his shoulder, only to be met with Ilforte's evil little glare. This made Noitora even more nervous, and when Ilforte tied his apron, he whimpered as the strings punctured his ribcage. Geez, Ilforte tied it _tight_.

"'Kay." Ilforte muttered. "Noitora and Halibel, put your hair in a ponytail or something."

Halibel quickly did as told, handing a hair tie to Noitora, who held it rather disdainfully. Ilforte took it from him and put Noitora's hair in a ponytail for him, seeing that he wasn't being very productive. But now, Ilforte was putting his apron and tucking his hair up into a surgical cap.

"Well, now the masks and caps. Gloves come last." He tossed them all green surgical caps, and watched very carefully as Stark tucked every curl in and as Noitora slipped his thick hair so that none of it showed. Wordlessly, Ilforte tied a mask around each one's neck and head, tying off Noitora's_ very_ tightly.

"That's what you get, bitch." Ilforte murmured, patting him harshly on the back. He grinned cruelly. "Well!" he said, addressing the group." You all look so…surgeon-like. Too bad you aren't, haha. Now the last part, the gloves. They're very tight for a reason…don't get any ideas, sickos." Ilforte added a snide laugh and opened the door to the OR for them.

A wave of cold air hit them, and the stale scent of sterile air came over them. And in the middle of the room, Szayel laid on the operating table. A dazzlingly bright light was shining over him. His eyes were closed, but he speaking in a low voice to Lumina, gesturing vaguely to a rather large needle sitting on a wheeled table nearby him. His shirt was off, and his pants were pulled down quite low. A green sheet was over his hips. Nearby, Ulquiorra and Grimmjow stood, both confused, afraid, and perhaps even a bit nauseated judging by the furrow of Grimmjow's eyebrows. He stood there, flexing his gloved hands, while Ulquiorra was looking around the room, mildly curious. He looked anywhere but at the table that had the surgical instruments waiting to be used.

"Hi." Szayel said weakly, motioning them over. Stark, Halibel and Noitora, jabbed in the back with a scalpel by Ilforte, had no choice but to approach Szayel.

"Hey." Stark said rather awkwardly. He smiled a little.

"Oh, come closer. All of you listen up." Szayel said quietly. His eyelids were drooping, now that Ilforte was jamming the needle into his vein. He allowed the anesthesia to flow very slowly.

"I want you all to cut here." Szayel took a marker and made a line, about five inches long, at the bottom right part of his torso.

"Oh, God." Grimmjow said in a rather high pitched voice, looking up the ceiling. Noitora nodded in agreement.

"Quit being sissies!" Szayel said sharply. "I don't have much time before I fall asleep. So, anyway, cut there. You're going to have to cut through or move through muscle, get past the peritoneum, and then tie off and snip the appendix…" Szayel's eyelids fell, but he continued to talk. By now, Ilforte was jamming a rather large needle into his hand for the IV.

"…then sew me back up. Use the sutures, put tape over them. That, or use the surgical glue. Sutures, please. Before, sewing me up,…place the muscles and peritoneum where they were originally…" Szayel stopped moving and his head rolled to the side.

"He died? Thank God!" Noitora said. He made a move to leave, but Stark restrained him.

"Are you on crack?" Ilforte's brown eyes were fixed on them. He dropped his gaze and pulled out a tube. "Of course he's not dead. He's just knocked out with the anesthesia. Hey, Halibel, come here, please."

Halibel flanked him.

"Administer these three shots. Once he enters stage three of anesthesia, vitals will fly up…" he waved a hand impatiently. "But anyway, this will calm him down completely so that he doesn't react badly during the surgery."

"Yes." Halibel took one of the injections, and nimbly put it in his arm, pressing down on it. In rapid succession, she had them all done.

"Heyy, very good." Ilforte said with an approving smile. Surgical masks can't hide smiles, after all. He returned to sliding a tube down Szayel's throat.

"Damn it. Laryngoscope." Ilforte held out an open hand and moved it around impatiently.

"Uh…what's that?" Stark asked, looking at the the surgical instruments.

"The thing that looks like what the Grim Reaper kills people with. It's got a light at the end." Ilforte said shortly. He pointed to it vaguely.

Stark wordlessly handed it to him, looking at the laryngoscope warily, as if it jump up and kill him.

"Thank you."

Ulquiorra, Grimmjow, and Noitora were huddled at the foot of the table, each one terribly grossed out. Grimmjow was positively trembling, and Ulquiorra was leaning back. It was too bad he and Grimmjow had finished their antibiotics not even three days ago. Otherwise, they wouldn't have to be in this predicament. They all watched as Ilforte looked down Szayel's throat with the laryngoscope, and his finally slid the tube in and pressed on some tube thing. The pilot tube.

Grimmjow gasped as he realized that the tube was all the way down Szayel's neck.

"Does it really take five people—" Ulquiorra began, but he was cut off by Ilforte.

"Alright! He's got the endotracheal tube in. Let's start this surgery." Ilforte smiled at all of them, but his smile fell once he saw Grimmjow, Ulquiorra, and Noitora.

"Yeah, get your wee asses up here, by me. If the puke factor sets in, leave, quickly. Don't tell me, don't just stand there, run." Ilforte said. He whipped out a crossword puzzle and shoved a paper in Halibel's face.

"You. You're head surgeon, seeing you're the most capable here. The directions are there as to how to do this thing."

"Oh." Halibel blinked, and took the paper. "Scalpel, please." Halibel hesitantly her right hand, waiting for a scalpel to placed in it. Stark jumped into action, standing by the wheeled table, and put the scalpel in her hand lightly. She nodded at him in thanks.

"Palmar grip…" Ilforte muttered, looking up briefly from his crossword puzzle. "Dinner knife. Hold it like a dinner knife."

Halibel nodded, hesitating just a few inches over the mark. She touched his skin with the tip of the scalpel, applying just enough pressure to leave a smooth, straight line as the incision.

"Good. Ulquiorra, get those plastic things over there. I want you to hold the incision open enough so Halibel can get past the muscle and peritoneum." Ilforte commanded.

Ulquiorra, unsure, picked up the plastic things. They reminded him of what orthodontists used to hold the lips back when taking pictures of the mouth prior to treatment.

He slid one under each piece of skin, and pulled them back, exposing the pinkish muscle tissue. There was not a large amount of blood, which seemed to relieve the whole room.

"Cut." Ilforte said. "Wait, let me do this. Unskilled people will screw it up." Ilforte took the scalpel brusquely from her, and in a flash the muscles were pushed aside, revealing the yellowish peritoneum. Ilforte continued, making a smaller incision. He handed the scalpel back to Halibel.

"Grimmjow, come and pull the peritoneum apart…"

"Oh my God…why?" he moaned. Coming closer, he was afraid to look down at the incision. With extreme reluctance, he looked down, and gasped. The blood. The muscles, the skin pried apart, and of course, the appendix, visible as Halibel opened up the incision. And suddenly, a peculiar feeling started to settle in Grimmjow's stomach. His vision became fuzzy, the room started spinning around him, and there was a pounding feeling in his ears. He felt cold, hot, and then cold again, and within seconds he was on the floor, out cold.

"Oh, motherf—!" Ilforte cried, jumping back as Grimmjow fell with a loud thud. "Are you shitting me?!" he demanded, kicking Grimmjow lightly.

Ulquiorra peered over Szayel's body and glanced at Grimmjow, lying on the ground. They could all see his white face in contrast to the emerald green scrubs. That fall was definitely going to leave a mark.

"H-Hey, I can totally take him outside…" Noitora offered graciously. "I mean, totally, I will."

Ilforte gave hoot, scoffing as he hoisted Grimmjow up by the armpits. He proceeded to drag him out of the room. Ilforte gave Noitora his middle finger and left the room, returning later after dumping Grimmjow on a stretcher. He decided to let Szayel deal with him when he woke up in less than an hour.

Halibel and Stark were making progress. By now, Halibel had tied off the highly inflamed appendix, and Stark was about to cut it with the forceps.

"Ulquiorra, I want you to clamp down with that…that thing, the—"

"Hemostat," Ilforte provided in monotone. He pointed to a scissor-like instrument lying on the table. It was very long, and the end was slightly curved.

"Yes, that…clamp the cut once I cut the appendix, okay?" Stark said, handing him some forceps and some gauze. "In the meantime, Halibel and I will clean the cavity, and we'll let you suture him up.

Ulquiorra nodded, letting go of the plastic things, and came closer to the operating table.

"This isn't that bad, actually." Ulquiorra said quietly.

"I agree." Halibel said. She watched as Stark removed the appendix, holding it with the forceps and depositing it in a glass container. She could tell he was a it unnerved by holding a chunk of Szayel's gut.

"Clamp it," she said, getting the disinfectant ready. Stark was dipping some gauze into antibiotic liquid, and wringing it out with strong, fast motions.

Ulquiorra held down the cut with the forceps, dabbing away at some blood. Halibel's nimble hands reached over his, going deeper into the cavity as she cleaned quickly. Stark was handing her new gauzes occasionally.

"Dude, you can let go." Ilforte said, indicating Ulquiorra as he pointed at him with his pencil. "Don't like, kill his gut. He still needs it."

"Right…" Ulquiorra murmured, pulling back. Stark took his forceps, and put a threaded needle in his hand. He stared at, realizing that these must be the sutures, or 'stitches', as he better knew them. "What exactly do I do?"

"Like sewing. Knot it up and make it really tight." Ilforte said. "Well, the only person who's can do the actual suturing is Szayel…so…let's just glue it and we'll let him suture himself."

Ulquiorra, Halibel and Stark exchanged confused glances. Stark's said "What the hell?" just about as clearly as Ulquiorra's said "…?"

With ease, Ilforte ran glue along the clean incision, and pressed an adhesive gauze pad over it softly. He turned off the operating lamp, which was blinding Ulquiorra, and the three of them stood there, proud of their achievement. For the most part, anyway. Ulquiorra's eyes were wider than usual, and even under the surgical mask they could tell he was grimacing passionately.

"Well, well, not bad for a bunch of noobs." Ilforte said, smiling broadly. "We're done here." He glanced down at Szayel, who had regained color to his face and looked slightly healthier.

"Anyway, let me get this bitch out of his trachea, and then…oh, wait. Noitora, how about you remove the endotracheal tube?"

But Noitora was nowhere to be seen. He had fled like a bat out of hell.

"What a faggot." Ilforte said rather loudly, pulling the tube out of Szayel's mouth and tossing it down on the table. Stark and Ulquiorra gave the tube a wide berth, as it shone with saliva and dripping with spit from Szayel's mouth.

"Anyway," Ilforte said, removing the anesthesia tube from Szayel's arm. "I'll tell my little bro here that Noitora flaked out on him. He'll be the perfect test for the bio weapons Szayel's got going."

"I see." Stark murmured.

"So, yeah, basically, Noitora's screwed." Ilforte said, watching Lumina and Verona push Szayel's gurney out of the operating room.

"So, how much older are you than Szayel?" Halibel asked. It was quite a change to her quiet self. She seemed quite conversational today.

"Four years. He's twenty three and I'm twenty seven, at least that's our human age." Ilforte replied, beckoning back to a different room. "Oh, take of the aprons and leave them here. Throw out the masks, gloves, and caps. Do the scrubs, and hang around the lab for a bit…I'll get you guys some food."

()()()()()()()

"That was, by far, the strangest thing I have ever done." Stark said, looking down at his hands. He thought he was having an allergic reaction to the scrub soap…his hands were itchy and felt dry.

"Indeed." Ulquiorra agreed. He shifted on his chair, and it squeaked. Szayel, on the bed now, stirred a little.

The three, after being fed a rather large helping of pizza and soda as a celebratory food, were full and a bit sleepy. They were sitting in the recovery room, where Szayel was nearing a state of consciousness. Ilforte was playing video games, and leaning on the foot of his brother's bed. He hummed a song rather loudly.

"Excuse me…" Halibel began, "isn't that going to wake up Szayel?"

"Like it matters?"

"…like what…matters?" a sleepy voice said. Everyone looked around the room, looking for the source of the voice. Everyone assumed it was Stark, since he was so prone to napping, but Stark was wide awake.

"What the hell?" Ilforte said loudly. "Am I on hallucinogens, or did I just hear some ghost start talking shit?"

It took them all a while to realize it was Szayel, drugged up from anesthesia and antibiotics, had said that. His eyes were still closed, but he was able to talk. However, he looked like he could just continue sleeping and take a short nap. His glasses were off, and it was weird to see him glasses-less.

"OHHH. Okay, gotcha, you woke up." Ilforte said. "So, bro, how're you feeling?"

"Like crap. Courtesy of the anesthesia, of course." Szayel answered, padding the bedside table for his glasses blindly.

"Ten bucks you can't guess who did the surgery on you."

"Ten bucks I can. Halibel, Stark and Ulquiorra."

"Damn."

"Pay up."

"Later."

Szayel sighed and shifted a little bit, cracking a bright yellow eye open to look at Stark, Halibel, and Ulquiorra, who sat there dumbly, blinking and breathing. They certainly did not look like surgeons.

"Frankly," Ulquiorra began, "I was positive you died halfway into the surgery."

Szayel made a face and addressed Halibel, who looked somewhat composed.

"How'd it go?" Szayel asked. "I'll brief Ilforte later."

"It went well." She replied stiffly. "Grimmjow passed out halfway through the surgery. Nobody knew he was so incredibly squeamish."

"He's lying out in the hallway right now, actually." Ilforte snickered.

"Interesting." He ignored Ilforte's comment. "Seems like I'll have to be doing brain surgery when the anesthesia wears off." Szayel said with a sadistic grin. Little by little he was waking up. "Oh, one more thing. I can't feel stitches." He frowned and eyed them all with reproach. "Who on this earth was stupid enough to glue such an incision as oppose to suturing it?" Szayel asked angrily.

"Uhh, well, about that." Ilforte said. "I decided to let you deal with that. I don't stitch, and no one that was with me knew the definition of sutures, so we were all like 'screw it' and glued you up instead."

"You're all idiots." Szayel said stonily, glaring at them all.

"Hey, kiddies, relax. It's anesthesia induced anger." Ilforte said. "You, Szayel, just need to rest. Stay here for a few more hours, and then you can go…do your crap."

Szayel nodded and shooed everyone out of the room.

()()()()()()()

Grimmjow was teetering back to his room with an icepack on the back of his head. It was not pleasant to wake up to some fat little women poking and prodding his head. But oh, he was dizzy. Very dizzy. And of course, his head hurt like hell and there was quite a bruise forming as well. He couldn't walk straight, but apparently he was just under some painkillers. Lumbering back into his room, Grimmjow decided to never walk into Szayel's laboratory again.

By the time dinner came around, Ulquiorra could not eat. Now, the fact he had just been inside Szayel's body was just grossing him out. He looked at food and saw an infected appendix with blood. His water looked like the spit dripping off the endotracheal tube…and that was not at all appetizing. He was getting weird looks from Aizen not eating. But he really couldn't bring himself to do it…he couldn't.

Stark was just eating like a normal person. He was not sick to his stomach, but he was a little amused by the thought of performing surgery on Szayel. It was quite an interesting thought. He smirked as he looked at Ulquiorra, sulking in his chair as he lowered at his food.

Noitora was shitting himself. Szayel would be up and about tomorrow, meaning his death was imminent. Another thing that made Ulquiorra and Stark smile.

The only 'surgeon' that was extremely proud was Halibel. Secretly, she was excited that she got so much praise from Ilforte. But of course, no one knew that she had been a surgeon in her past life. Even so, it was nice to see the bewildered looks on the others' faces when she made that flawless incision.

()()()()()()()

As for Szayel…he was indeed up and about. Once Ilforte left, he did his own sutures, and within a few hours, he was prowling around the Chemistry Suite, and he knew exactly what he would do to Noitora. He mixed a flask of an opaque liquid with something else—a thick compound, creating a fizzing, endothermic effect that caused Szayel to recoil with the cold.

"Hmm, like a brain freeze but for the whole body…then the sensation of having a limb fall asleep…of course! Oh, but I can do a surgery without anesthesia either…hmm…" Szayel grinned, tipping some of the flask's contents into a test tube. "No matter how many times I have to doctor these idiots up, I will always enjoy my position as the only scientist and surgeon in Hueco Mundo."

Szayel took the test tube with him to the operating room, ready for use the next day. Closing the door, he muttered to himself, "Be prepared to suffer, Noitora. Yes, yes, Dr. Grantz is in. And Dr. Grantz will _always_ be in."

* * *

YES, I'm well aware of the fact Ilforte is dead. I'm also aware of the fact that no one knows how his name is spelled, so I went my with favorite version. I like him though, so screw it.

Ah, yes, tomorrow is the day. My tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. I've been waiting for this moment for three months! Well, I wanted to get a chapter in, especially for this fic. I had severe writer's block until, like, yesterday, when I finished the chapter.

Wish me luck on the surgery!

**Need some refs? Here.**

Endotracheal Intubation: /watch?v5J3J38se3TQ (laryngoscope, tubing, cuff, guy with cool accent. They're doing that to me tomorrow!)

Appendectomy: (sqeamish people, beware: pic shows surgeons pointing to appendix) en./wiki/Appendectomy

Hemostat: en./wiki/Image:Hemostats.jpg

**Sorry, this chapter was a bit rushed...I might edit it sometime after my tonsillectomy, but anyway, I hope you enjoyed and please review.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Doctor…SAVE ME!**

Not mine.

Thanks for wishing me a happy tonsillectomy! It was VERY happy indeed. I loved it.

* * *

A few months later, all had been quiet in Las Noches. People had been doing well, generally, and most were in a good mood due to the fact that Aizen was on vacation in San Francisco. He had decided, after many pranks from lesser Arrancar, that it was time for a personal vacation involving himself and himself. Thankfully, he had taken Tousen along, leaving Gin 'in charge' of Las Noches, when in reality all he did was drink and crash parties thrown by the lower rank Arrancar. Instead of sitting in the throne room all day like Aizen did, he sat around in his room or cruised all of Las Noches when he felt like it. The stocks of alcohol that Noitora had were running low, courtesy of Gin, as the firecrackers. Already, the main hall—not the throne room—had been spangled with streamers and little neon pieces of paper. It seemed as if a New Year's party had been thrown the night before. That, or a rave party, and this made Grimmjow and Noitora happy, since they were more party animal-ish than the other Espada. Of course, the others couldn't object either.

However, Noitora was not going to be partying any time soon. He was held as a hosage/testing subject for Szayel, at the moment. It had cost Noitora fifteen pounds, inches of hair, and three inches of overbite. He also nearly lost his hand when Szayel accidently spilled some chemicals on it. Along with that, he had lost quite a it of blood. One step out of line, and the bomb Szayel had implanted in his gut would go off without warning. Cynical as it was, Szayel's plan worked…he somehow wired the bomb to sense bad impulses…or something…but now, Noitora was a slave to good deeds. Until Szayel freed him. Of course, nobody could object to Noitora locked up in a cage, oh no.

All were in relatively good spirits, except for maybe Szayel. At the moment, he was in his laboratory, which was no change…he was just dealing with a reluctant and uncooperative patient that was pressing his buttons. This was unusual for Szayel. He had an above average bedside manner, knew his procedures and medical information very well, and he had that charming smile. When paired with the reassuring nod he gave, anyone would want to be sedated and had surgery done right then and there. But right now, this was not the case, Szayel was becoming pissed at the patient to the point where he could've easily stabbed them with the tongue depressor.

"Are you high?" Szayel demanded, pounding his fist on the table angrily. He was frowning at Ulquiorra maniacally, and the tongue depressor he had in hand was near snapping.

Ulquiorra looked at him warily, leaning away from the volatile Szayel. He gingerly ran his fingers along his neck and looked around the room, analyzing it for an escape route before Szayel went postal. All doors were closed, there were no windows, and Szayel was not dumb enough to fall for any 'I need to pee' tricks.

"No," Ulquiorra replied, bracing himself for a blow. "I'm not high."

Szayel rubbed his temples and ran his glove hands through his hair. Ulquiorra heard many little snapping sounds as Szayel killed his hair, breaking it here and there. Szayel snapped his eyes open, glaring at him angrily. But he was a bit reminiscent of a male model. Ulquiorra was going say something, but he decided not to, seeing the present situation.

"Look, Ulquiorra, let me give it you straight." Szayel said with an exaggerated sigh. "If you're coming to my lab every two weeks with a streptococcus or tonsillitis infection, that means it's time for a tonsillectomy! Screw it, we could even throw in an adenoidectomy…wouldn't even make a difference in the pain, ha!"

Ulquiorra replied by shaking his head.

"It is." Szayel said. "And even if we kept treating you for your infections, I can tell you that your kidneys would suffer. I refuse to give you more medication, Ulquiorra."

"But…how will I get better?"

"The tonsillectomy." Szayel said, hinting a smile. "It's all very simple, a twenty minute surgery. I'll cauterize--"

"No." Ulquiorra said, shaking his head slightly more vigorously. He began to wring his hands lightly in his lap and averted Szayel's cold, sadistic gaze.

"Yes. Are you scared of the pain? I have so many drugs to give you, you won't even feel pain." Szayel grinned suddenly, a knowing, evil little grin. "No pain at all…"

"Aizen said you couldn't touch me, remember?" Ulquiorra said defensively, fidgeting with his sash discreetly.

"Aizen's in freaking San Francisco. Does it really matter? Besides, once the surgery is over, no one will suspect anything." Szayel said, smiling at him sardonically. He winked at Ulquiorra.

Ulquiorra became noticeably unnerved. He blanched, if that was possible. The idea of surgery—especially after witnessing Szayel's surgery two months ago —still caused him to feel faint. Maybe it had to do with the blood, or the skin, but he couldn't forget seeing the surgery itself. Even when he ate, he was haunted by Szayel's appendix…it was raping his happy thoughts.

"…twenty minutes, day surgery, and is very safe, especially when done with me."

"Do I have to?" Ulquiorra asked disdainfully, assuming his well known angst mode.

"Yes." Szayel said airily, clicking his pen and writing something down on his fancy notebook-laptop. "Let's see. How about we schedule it for a week from today? That would be the fourth of October."

"I'll run away." Ulquiorra threatened, standing up to leave.

"And where would you go?"

"Shit."

"Exactly." Szayel smiled warmly at him and gave him a pat on the back. He chuckled as he accompanied him out of the exam room. "Be here that day, six in the morning." Then, the air changed. A strange, cold feeling settled in his stomach and began to eradiate to his legs and arms.

"I will go look for you if I have to. And that tranquilizer gun is one hundred percent effective." Szayel added, shooing him out of the lab. "Well, I'll see you then!" He chuckled again and waved, as Ulquiorra, bemused, shuffled out of the lab without a glance over his shoulder. He shuddered. This was not going to be pleasant.

* * *

"So, basically, he's going to burn out your tonsils?" Grimmjow said through a mouthful of donut. He scowled and looked up from a furniture catalog.

"Yes." Ulquiorra replied, nibbling on his toast. He was eyeing a strange blue stain on the counter that wasn't there yesterday.

"Well, shit, that sucks for you." Grimmjow snickered and chugged down what was left of his milk. "I mean, Szayel's not a bad surgeon. But uhh, that's a pretty fucked up operation."

"Indeed." Ulquiorra agreed stiffly. He had begun to notice a pattern multi colored stains on the counters. "I'm not pleased."

"Meh, it'll be over fast." Grimmjow waved his hand, sending sprinkles everywhere, much to Stark's chagrin. Stark flicked them back to Grimmjow.

"It's like drinking water for Szayel," Stark put in calmly. He was feasting on some biscuits and a soda for breakfast. "He's really good. Of course, post op pain will be intense. It should be worth it."

Ulquiorra winced and sighed. He really did not know what to expect.

"If it makes you feel any better, Grimmjow and I can come to watch the surgery." Stark said, resting his chin in his hands.

"Wait…what?" Grimmjow nearly choked on his donut as he stared at Stark with wide eyes.

"Well, if it's any consolation. Besides, it's a fast surgery. It'll also be good for Grimmjow to get rid of the squeamishness, no?"

Grimmjow made a face and put down his journal. He suddenly lost his appetite, for some unknown reason. The Ikea catalog suddenly became extremely interested as he buried his nose in it unabashedly.

"Do I have to?" Grimmjow asked with a scoff. He gave them both glares.

"Yeah." Stark said with a short, fast nod. "I know Szayel would love it."

Grimmjow smacked his forehead with his palm and gave a pained, exaggerated groan.

"We'll be there. At what time is it?"

"Six in the morning, October fourth, in one week."

Stark raised his eyebrows and Grimmjow moaned.

"Ah, hell." Stark grimaced. "We'll be there."

"We will?" Grimmjow asked.

"Yes." Stark said firmly. He smiled slightly.

* * *

Ulquiorra was pacing his room quickly and worriedly. He glanced at the clock, and it read five thirty seven a.m., Friday, October fourth. He couldn't believe that a week had passed, and the forsaken day of his damned operation had to come already. How could a week spent angsting, worrying, and hating everything have gone so fast? Ulquiorra was flabbergasted…at himself and at the time. Aizen was coming back in three days, which was not something he was looking forward to. Who would?

Ulquiorra knew his time was limited. The walk to the lab took seven minutes, and seeing that he had lost this battle, there was nothing he could do but go straight down to the lab. Szayel would appreciate it anyway. And it would hopefully be over with quickly. He was hungry, and hadn't eaten in more than twelve hours due to mandatory pre op fasting. Ulquiorra made a face as he opened the door to exit his room. He took one last look at his room, because he was fairly sure that this was the last time he'd ever see it. Sighing heavily and stuffing his hands in his pocket, he started off to Szayel's laboratory.

Upon entering the lab, Szayel was greeted by Ilforte, who did not look too happy. But there was a strange, amused little grin hanging off his lips as he smiled at him rather automatically. He was in scrubs, his hair was tied back, and he looked quite ready to start the operation.

"Well, well, look who's here." He greeted. Ilforte beckoned him with a jerk of finger, and Ulquiorra followed him as he led him down the main hallway, turning sharply to the right and pushing open a pair of glass doors, opening up to another hallway branching off to the left and right.

"To the left is the recovery area. To the right is the Post Anesthesia Recovery Unit, or PACU for short. That's where you will be, since you'll be far too drugged up to do anything. Up straight is the pre op station, and yeah. The ORs are in the back. You'll be in OR 4, I believe…"

"Yes." Ulquiorra said stiffly.

Ilforte continued, leading him to the pre op area and pushing him onto a scale. Once he was weight, Ilforte continued a more meters, moving a curtain aside to reveal a bed, a small monitor, and a bedside table on wheels. It was small, but comfortable.

"Sit," Ilforte pointed to the bed. He pulled a stethoscope down from around his neck, unzipping Ulquiorra's jacket. Ulquiorra resisted a shudder as the cold metal was pressed against his skin.

"Deep breaths," Ilforte said.

Ulquiorra did as told, wincing as the stethoscope was moved to the other side of his chest.

"Breath normally…" Ilforte commanded. "Alright. You sound fine to me, but geez, relax. Your heart's beating like nuts." He snickered and checked Ulquiorra's back with the stethoscope. By now goose bumps were popping up on Ulquiorra's arms. It was so cold. Ilforte brusquely pulled Ulquiorra's jacket off of him.

"So, you're nervous, huh?" Ilforte asked. He plucked a blood pressure cuff from a basket attached to the monitor, tying it around Ulquiorra's upper arm and slipping the stethoscope under it. As it inflated, Ulquiorra began to lost feeling of his arm, and numbers popped up on the screen. Ilforte chuckled.

"Ninety three over one twenty nine. I'd say you're pretty anxious." Ilforte removed the cuff, tossing it back into the basket and handled Ulquiorra a white shirt.

"I'm not nervous." Ulquiorra said indignantly.

"Wear this." Ilforte clearly ignored him. "We'll need your arms clear. Since a gown isn't really necessary, I'll just give you a shirt."

Ulquiorra took it glumly and pulled it over his head, listening to Ilforte's pen scratching the paper. Surgery was imminent, indeed.

"Hey, Ilforte, can you administer a sedative to Grimmjow real fast?" Szayel's voice suddenly joined the scritch-scratching, and Ulquiorra looked up to see Szayel in emerald green scrubs. His hair was tucked into a cap that reminded him of shower caps.

"Ugh. Yeah." Ilforte replied, looking up briefly. "Why can't you do it?"

"I'm busy." Szayel said dismissively. He turned to Ulquiorra and smiled sincerely. "Hello, Ulquiorra. How are you doing?"

"Fine." Ulquiorra replied with more irritation than he meant.

"It'll be over quickly." Szayel said, patting his shoulder softly. "Ilforte, while you go deal with Grimmjow, I'll prep Ulquiorra. How does that sound?"

"Sounds good to me." Ilforte shoved the papers in Szayel's face. Szayel accepted them, snatching Ulquiorra's medical records from his hands and skimming them over. Ilforte took off with an injection of fair size in hand.

"Hmm, let's see…if you're in pain once you wake up I'll have Ilforte administer morphine…and we'll go from there." Szayel pulled a syringe full of magenta liquid out of his pocket.

"What's that?" Ulquiorra demanded, scooting away. He threw Szayel and horrendous look.

"The sedative." Szayel answered. He held it up to Ulquiorra's lips. "Pucker up! It doesn't taste great."

Szayel pushed the plunger on the syringe, sending the pleasant grape flavored liquid into his mouth, and Ulquiorra swallowed convulsively as it kept coming. It didn't taste bad until Szayel pulled the syringe from Ulquiorra's mouth. At once, a bittersweet burning sensation was threatening to fry his tongue.

"That tastes horrible." Ulquiorra said dryly, fanning his tongue. He suddenly felt slightly nauseous, though he didn't know whether to blame it on the sedative or the fact he'd be under anesthesia in ten minutes.

"Hehe, I agree." Szayel said, adding a few things to the medical evaluation sheet. "Stark is already in the operating room. In about ten minutes, Lumina will come and get you."

Ulquiorra's stomach flipped over at the mention of that. He was not the least bit excited.

"…IV, start the surgery. It's quick and easy. Besides, I have my own style." Szayel smiled at him one last time. "Alright. Relax here for a bit. I'll see you soon." With that, Szayel put a warm blanket on his and lowered the headrest a little bit. Ulquiorra sighed as soon as Szayel left the little room.

This was going to be horrible. Why didn't he just escape to the real world and make Szayel chase him? It would buy Ulquiorra time, that was for sure. He was faster and stronger than Szayel, seeing he was four ranks higher. But Szayel had his own ways. Ulquiorra took the next few minutes of consciousness to hate everything and everyone, making sure to add Szayel to his hit list. And just as his eyelids began to droop and frivolous thoughts filled his mind, he noticed he had begun to move. Glancing to his left, he saw the side rails of his bed had gone up, and Lumina was pushing him a steady pace down the hallway, and past two sets of metal doors. The temperature dropped about fifteen degrees. They had entered the hallway with several doors, spaced out considerably. Lumina opened one of the doors, and Ulquiorra was in the OR, where the temperature was barely fifty degrees. For that reason, Ulquiorra felt a pang of anger.

Stark was next to Ilforte, organizing some things and watching hand hang the IV bag to a hook that hung near his head. Szayel was talking to Verona in a fast language that Ulquiorra assumed was Polish.

"Oh, hi Ulquiorra. If you would be so kind as to roll over to the operating table, please do." Szayel said. He returned to pointing vaguely around the OR and giving commands to his fraccion.

Lumina put his bed next to the operating table, and Ulquiorra rolled over onto the operating table sluggishly. It was firm, not at all soft, but not uncomfortable. At once, Szayel's fraccion, Stark, and even Grimmjow were all over him.

Ilforte was busy jamming a mask over his mouth, Stark was prying his shirt up while Szayel put on little sticky things on his chest to monitor his heart rate.

It was then Ulquiorra realized that this was the anesthesia. As he breathed the sweet, stale scent, Ulquiorra became sleepy at an alarming rate. He was fighting the feeling of relaxation, making sure to keep his eyes open even though his awareness was sleeping.

"Ha, you can't fight the anesthesia." Ilforte said with a few laughs.

The last thing Ulquiorra remembered was something cold on his leg, and Ilforte saying "He's out."

* * *

Grimmjow stared. Ulquiorra was totally asleep. He went totally limp and everything. Grimmjow bit his lip. The injection he had been given minutes earlier stung a little, but he was calm enough.

"Let's see. Ilforte, what do you plan to give him?" Szayel asked. He was examining the electrocautery device while Stark was organizing some of the tools.

"Steroids, morphine, painkillers, the usual." Ilforte said flippantly. He snapped the laryngoscope open and pried Ulquiorra's mouth open with thumb and forefinger.

"I want you to add the antibiotics when I finish up with him and he's wheeled off to PACU. Hold the morphine and Lortab™ until then." Szayel said, handing Stark the cautery device.

"Yes, sir, whatever you say." Ilforte said sarcastically. Szayel ignored him.

"Uhh…am I really needed here?" Grimmjow asked with a nervous laugh.

"Hey, Grimmjow, go get me that tube right there." Ilforte said, pointing vaguely to his left. On a small table on wheels, there was tube about a foot long. Grimmjow stared it for a while before picking up between thumb and forefinger and handing it to Ilforte, who was peering down Ulquiorra's throat.

Grimmjow, with mild fascination and disgust, watched as Ilforte pulled up and away with the laryngoscope.

"You want to see?" Ilforte asked, looking up at Grimmjow.

"Uh…sure…" Grimmjow came closer and looked down Ulquiorra's throat. Ilforte's gloved finger got in the way as he explained.

"That there is the vocal cords," he said. "The tube is going to go in there until the cuff passes through. Watch."

Grimmjow came closer, and watched as Ilforte slid the tube right in smoothly. He let go and began to work with a smaller tube.

"It's that simple. Now we hook him up the respirator. Not that bad, huh?"

"Nope…it's when the blood and guts come in that I lose it." Grimmjow muttered. He backed away and Ilforte snapped the laryngoscope shut and sent it down on the table. It shone with Ulquiorra's saliva under the bright lights.

While Ilforte worked with the anesthesia, Szayel was dealing with the mouth gag.

"See, this goes behind his front teeth while this part acts as a tongue depressor," Szayel explained calmly. "It will keep the mouth open and tongue out of the way while I operate. This is called a mouth gag."

Although it was a grotesque contraption, Grimmjow was slightly fascinated.

Szayel peered down his throat, and glanced at some of the monitors.

"Are you done there, Ilforte?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, let's begin. Stark, forceps please. We're going to start with the left tonsil." Szayel stood at Ulquiorra's head, behind him, and jabbed the left tonsil with the forceps. He put pressure and pulled away, stretching the lymphoid tissue. He held out his hand, waiting for the cautery device. It was placed in his hand firmly, and Szayel turned it on.

"Low cautery. Lumina, get the hemostats nearby in case I nick a bleeder." Szayel pulled the tonsil farther away yet, taking the cautery device in hand and gently burning the tonsillar tissue with meticulous precision. He was going around the tonsil itself, of course, to remove as much as possible without harming the other tissues. It did take a while, seeing there was plenty to burn off.

"Left tonsil coming off. Stark, get me that jar over there." Szayel commanded. Stark did as told, holding out the small jar to Szayel. Szayel gave the cautery device to Grimmjow, who was looking pale, and pulled out the tonsil with a new set of tongs, dropping it into the jar. He and Verona had three hemostats in the area, clamping the vessels and making sure they got everything off.

"I don't feel good…" Grimmjow muttered. His vision was swaying, just the sight and smell of the blood was getting to him, and seeing Stark walking with that contaminated jar made him feel woozy. He was becoming hot and cold, his vision was dazzled with colors, and his legs felt tingly. His heartbeat slowed down and he began to sweat. And once again, in the very same OR, Grimmjow fainted. He was lying on the floor, white face in contrast with the green mask.

"Poor thing. I had no idea he was so squeamish." Szayel tut-tutted. "Lumina, if you would be so kind as to take him to the radiology suite…I think he'll need x-rays of his skull."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Ilforte said loudly, shaking his head. "Again?"

"Well, at least he tried." Stark muttered, watching as Verona dragged him away by his arm. "Funny thing, he can deal with bloody people in battle, but he can't deal with operations."

"I would be pissed if he threw up." Szayel said removing two hemostats. He handed them to Stark, who put them back down on the table.

"I'm just pissed." Ilforte said angrily. He glanced at the IV quickly before returning to the book he was reading. "Ah, well. Whatever. Hey, Szayel, are we getting rid of the adenoids, too?"

"No. I looked at them a while ago and they seemed fine. After all, his problem is the constant strep. I'll have to see if I can remove them another time if the problem persists."

Ilforte scoffed.

"Whatever."

Szayel moved on to the right tonsil once the bleeding stopped. This tonsil he had some issues with. It was cryptic, and the tongs wouldn't quite hold. He had to apply plenty of pressure and hold his hand differently.

"Cautery device," he said. Once it was in hand, he repeated the procedure, pulling the tonsil every which way so it wouldn't slip out of his grip.

"Little bitch ass tonsil here…" Szayel grumbled. His annoyance did not show in his actions. He gracefully continued, without a problem. The low cautery was working well, and it would prevent excessive burning. When the tonsil was dangling by nothing more than a hunk of tissue, Verona came in with the hemostats. Stark was already waiting with another jar in hand.

Szayel deposited the tonsil in the jar, jamming some hemostats here and there.

"Are we almost done?" Stark asked, glancing at the clock. Only fifteen minutes had passed.

"Yes. Pretty fast, huh?" Szayel smiled at him. He extracted a bloody hemostat and handed it t Stark, who gingerly laid it on the table. "It would have taken longer if I had gotten closer to the carotid artery, but I have my own secret style—leaving just enough skin around the muscle."

"Muscle?" Stark echoed vaguely, scowling. He winced at the thought.

"Of course. The tonsillectomy will leave the throat muscles open and exposed. Over time, tissue will grown back over it." Szayel said. He gave Stark a bloodier hemostat. Szayel then moved the last hemostat, changing its location slightly.

"Ilforte, I'm about to finish up here. Administer the antibiotics. Amoxicillin."

"Working on it." Ilforte tipped something into the IV bag. "I'm going to put in the catheter, now."

"Sounds good."

Ilforte extracted the IV needle, and inserted a catheter through a rather thick syringe. He hooked it up to the IV, and let the liquid flow into his blood. Then, fun, he tied some green gauze around it to keep it in place. Ilforte pulled out the mouth gag, snapping it shut and letting Ulquiorra's mouth close. He tipped his head back into a more normal and painless position just after he pulled the tube out of his throat. He then removed the heart monitors from his chest.

Szayel pulled out the last hemostat, examined the monitors' readings, and declared the surgery a success. Meanwhile, Lumina was dragging Ulquiorra onto his previous bed and Ilforte was hanging the IV off a hook connected to a thing pole on the bed.

"Stark, I have one more thing to ask you." Szayel smiled at him, patting his back with the hand that had less blood and gore on it. "Could you please take those tonsils down to pathology? In the mean hallway, it should be a few hallways down to the left…Thanks very much for your help, by the way." Szayel winked at him. "When you finish with that errand, report to me and you can give back my scrubs and wash up."

"Oh. Sure." Stark said, nodding. He took off his cap, gloves and apron, and left the OR.

Szayel and Ilforte, leaving the OR to the rest of his fraccion to disinfect, went on to removing their aprons and surgical paraphernalia.

"What do you think?" Szayel asked as he scrubbed his hands. "Do you Ulquiorra would have seen that surgery isn't so bad after this?"

"Nah." Ilforte dried his hands brusquely. "Some people just hate surgery."

"And some can't appreciate the beauty of surgery…" Szayel said dramatically.

"Whatever. Hey, I'm going to make sure I didn't kill Ulquiorra accidentally. Be right back." Ilforte said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"And I'm going to go check on Grimmjow's x-rays." Szayel said. He left the room, walking out of the surgery suite and moving down to the radiology area.

Upon arriving, Lumina handed him the x-rays. Szayel held them up to the light.

"Hmm…" he hummed. His frown went away when he saw there was no damage done. "Has Grimmjow woken up yet?"

"Yes." Lumina answered. "I sent him to him room with an ice pack."

"Ahh, the ghetto method." Szayel shrugged and shouldered his lab coat. "I approve."

* * *

Ulquiorra was falling in and out of consciousness. He could hear voices distantly, and he could he could tell that he was alive, but the sluggish feeling weighing him down was enough to make him feel like sleeping forever and ever.

"Hey, Ulquiorra."

Ulquiorra was too sleepy to reply to Ilforte.

"What?" he whispered hoarsely. It was then he became away of the liquid near his throat and a strange taste. Ulquiorra cleared his throat, wincing at the pain, and swallowed whatever was back there. A sharp, ringing part was radiating in the back of his throat. His neck hurt a little, too.

"Are you in pain?" Ilforte asked.

Ulquiorra nodded.

"Alright. Morphine and Lortab is on its way. Sit tight and take a break."

Ulquiorra fell back into a dreamy state in which he nearly fell asleep again, but he was becoming slightly more alert as the time passed by. About twenty minutes later, he opened his eyes. He was in a 'room' much like the one he was in before. The temperature was normal, and he was extremely comfortable. Ulquiorra looked down, seeing his hand and the IV. On his hand, however, there was a small contraption reminiscent of a clothespin attached to the middle finger of his right hand. He felt sluggish, but other than that he felt alright. The painkillers were kicking in. He was also very hungry.

Szayel popped his head around the curtain. He grinned when he saw Ulquiorra was awake.

"Ah! How are you?" Szayel asked, hiding something behind his back. He stood at Ulquiorra's bedside, reading the monitor quickly. "Oh, take a few deep breaths. Blood pressure about to drop under ninety, and this machine will start beeping until you bring it up. Keep a steady breath rate."

"I'm…fine…" Ulquiorra said hoarsely.

"Don't strain yourself," Szayel said, turning to him. "Well, here I have a list of foods you can and can't eat and post op care. I've got a list of your medications and their dose times and dose amounts. Along with that, I have also included what to do if you start bleeding and all that other stuff involving scabs a few days after surgery."

Ulquiorra was too drugged up to comprehend with half of what Szayel was saying, since he was becoming sleepy again, but he was just pleased that it was on paper and he wouldn't have to remember anything.

"Right." Szayel nodded. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes." Ulquiorra replied.

"I'll get you a mashed popsicle. Be right back." Szayel disappeared around the corner and returned a few minutes later with a cup of something red. Szayel was twirling a plastic spoon around in his fingers. He dipped it into the cup and it came back red. Ah, a cherry popsicle. Yum.

While Szayel spooned some of the popsicle into his mouth, he blabbed on and on about tonsillectomies, arteries, why idiots confuse vein and arteries, and the subject became interesting when he mentioned Grimmjow passing out once again in the operating room.

"Did he really?" Ulquiorra asked.

"Yup." Szayel shoved another spoonful in his mouth. In fact, Ulquiorra was starting to assume Szayel was feeding him so he could talk without being interrupted. That, or he liked to rant about medical issues. "He fainted right after I removed your left tonsil." Szayel sighed and waved a hand. "It was pathetic. There wasn't even that much blood."

Ulquiorra scowled and sucked on the popsicle. It was sweet, but satisfying.

"Anyway! So, thoracic surgery. It's a very interesting field of surgery…"

And Ulquiorra tuned out. By now, he was fully conscious, and feeling much better.

"When can I leave?" Ulquiorra interrupting, swallowing the last bit of popsicle with gusto.

"Oh. Well…" Szayel glanced at the clock. "It's almost nine. Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes." Ulquiorra nodded and gently kicked the covers off of himself.

"In that case, you may." Szayel pulled the clothespin thing off of his finger and turned off the monitor. He took Ulquiorra left hand, undid the gauze, and slid the catheter out of his vein, quickly putting a band aid on it. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" Szayel asked playfully, helping Ulquiorra out of bed. He draped his jacket around his shoulders.

"No, it wasn't." Ulquiorra replied. He felt like an idiot for worrying. The surgery went fine, he felt alright, and now he could relax up in his room.

Szayel chuckled and walked next to Ulquiorra as they excited the PACU and were in the main hallway.

"Well, I'll have one of my fraccion take your meds up to your room when they are ready. I will have one be your personal butler—"

"No, I'll use my fraccion." Ulquiorra said.

"Alright. Well, they can get you food and wake you up for your doses and whatnot." Szayel said speeding up his pace. "Also, don't forget to read these papers. It has all of the info you need."

Ulquiorra accepted the packet Szayel had given him. It contained at last twenty pages, double sided, font sized twelve with one point spacing. Ulquiorra swallowed. This would be quite a read.

"Thanks, Ulquiorra. You weren't dysfunctional. Remember, your recovery will be painful, but you'll be alright." Szayel patted his back. He sure was in a good mood today. "I'll see you soon."

Ulquiorra nodded stiffly and left. He went up to his room and laid down on his bed. But an hour or so later, Szayel's fat and ugly fraccion showed up holding five bottles of ridiculous proportion.

Ulquiorra's eyes widened minimally.

"Hello, Mr. Schiffer." Lumina greeted. "This here is your painkiller, the Lortab. It's a narcotic." A pamphlet was taped to both bottles of Lortab, which she set on Ulquiorra's bedside table. "These two bottles are your antibiotic, Amoxicillin." A thick, pink liquid sloshed around in the bottles as she set them down next to the Lortab. "And here is the ibuprofen. You will discontinue its use five days from today. Dosages and schedules are on the papers Master Szayel gave you." she set down little measuring cups, bowed, and left.

Ulquiorra flipped through the packet until he landed at the dosage schedules. It appeared to be time for the Amoxicillin.

When he took that dose, Ulquiorra knew recovery was not going to be pleasant. Amoxicillin three times a day? Lortab six times a day? Ulquiorra barely swallowed the amoxicillin! How would he survive?

Bracing himself, Ulquiorra went to take a nap, only to be woken up two hours later. It was time for his Lortab.

Yes, his original paradigm was right: this would be a crappy surgery indeed.

* * *

Ulquiorra had a MUCH more pleasant experience than I did. He didn't throw up blood, saliva, and mucus five times like I did, nor did he have the steroids physically affecting him too much. I did. The steroids (anti inflammatories for tongue/uvula swelling) didn't allow me to stay awake for more than two minutes for three days. My painkiller gave me vertigo, nausea, and drowsiness, lol. But I still loved my experience. It was amazing. I healed very quickly. I love surgery so much...

I hope you enjoyed! Next chapter: Halibel's Hypochondria. It will be lulzy. I have some funny ideas.

I have school starting soon, so it may be out before or after...I have an idea for this one, heh.


	4. Chapter 4

Doctor, you suck.

I've been busy, that's all I have to say, LOL.

But here it is! I had fun researching.

* * *

The only thing Grimmjow liked about mornings was the breakfast. Other than that, mornings sucked. A lot. But he was in a decent mood, or now, at least.

He had slept a good twelve hours last night, and now he was hungry. He stretched like a cat, yawned, and left his bedroom. Raising himself up on tiptoe to make sure no one would hear him or harass him, he began his catlike promenade down to the kitchen. He was looking forward to some delicious Lucky Charms™, complete with a half gallon of milk to wash it all down. Already he could smell something delectable from the kitchen, a few doors down. It smelled like sugar, syrup, and more yummy stuff he couldn't point out.

But on his way there, he heard fast, frantic footsteps. Grimmjow stopped, scowled, and looked around. Right then, Ulquiorra sped past him, veering left into the kitchen and tearing apart the pantry. Grimmjow, with the words what the fuck etched over his face, sauntered in after him, trying hard to keep a laugh stuck in his gut as Ulquiorra took hearty bites of potato chips.

"Haha, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Grimmjow asked, amused.

"I haven't eaten something hard in two weeks." Ulquiorra said coldly. "Actually, I haven't eaten in two weeks. So go away." Oh, that's right. It had been two weeks since Ulquiorra's tonsillectomy, and it was time to eat, eat, eat since his scabs were partially gone. It had been quiet for Szayel since then—he hadn't had to deal with any maladies.

Grimmjow liked the kitchen. It was the only thing in Las Noches that wasn't white. In fact, it had many earthy tones with an orangey tile and Spanish touches everywhere. It also smelled delicious, like salad and sometimes fresh cooked meat. The kitchen was warm and homey. He also liked the kitchen because there was an interminable supply of food. Healthy, junky, whatever it was, they had it. Which made him happy. Sniggering, Grimmjow strolled over to Ulquiorra's side. But he felt something wet underfoot, and before he knew it, he was on the ground, eliciting a thud and crack, with a searing pain in his arm. His eyes went wide.

"OW! Motherfucker!" Grimmjow screamed, paling.

Ulquiorra, in mid chew, stopped and stared. His eyes widened and his eyebrows went up as he stared at Grimmjow, lying on the ground, moaning in pain.

"I heard a crack…" Ulquiorra murmured through a mouthful of chips. Oh, it was probably the sound his butt made when it clashed with the water he slipped in. That had to be it.

"Dear God!" Grimmjow moaned, sitting up. He leaned against the cabinets, breathing hard and fast. His left arm was being cradled in his right hand, and he inspected it with tears of pain in his eyes.

"I can barely move it. Shit." He muttered, flexing the fingers on his left hand. Ulquiorra, morbidly curious, came closer.

"I think you broke it." Ulquiorra remarked blankly. It's swelling already and crooked." Ulquiorra extended a finger to touch it.

"Go away!" Grimmjow kicked Ulquiorra's shins and shakily stood up, grabbing the countertop for support. He couldn't even have breakfast.

Epic fail.

"Szayel should see that." Ulquiorra said bluntly, indicating his arm with a fork. "If not, who knows what will happen."

"Whatever!" Grimmjow nearly shrieked. He shook his head viciously, in denial.

"Oho, what's going on here?"

Noitora, with his pedophilic and bizarre grin, swaggered into the kitchen with nothing but boxers and a bathrobe. His hair was all messy and greasy, like usual, and there was a slightly smug air around him.

"Grimmjow broke his arm." Ulquiorra said. "He slipped in a puddle of water."

"I did not." Grimmjow coolly contradicted. He sucked in a breath as his arm touched the side of the counter.

"What the…" Noitora's eyes narrowed, and he sashayed over to them. He glanced at Grimmjow's arm for a few seconds, and then shrugged. "I don't know or care. Go make Szayel deal with it."

"No." Grimmjow said firmly. "He's going to cut me up and kill me and feed me cyanide—"

"No he won't, you pussy." Noitora sniggered. He folded his arms and looked down at Grimmjow condescendingly.

"Szayel is a good doctor." Ulquiorra said firmly.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No!" Grimmjow whined, stomping his foot. "I refuse."

-

-

And once again that morning, our favorite scientist Szayel was relaxing in his office. His feet were on his desk, and he was typing up a lab report on his laptop. Recently, he had found a very peculiar organic element. After several tests, Szayel had had deemed it a reactive toxin that he placed in the first group of the periodic table, under that alkali metals. So, what better to do than write a report about it? Thirty pages long, single spaced, twelve point font: a typical report about one element, Szayel style. He was so into it, in fact, that he didn't even hear the squalling from the front of the lab. It was when someone screamed that his he realized his relaxation had come to an abrupt end. Szayel sighed, pushed his glasses up his nose, donned his lab coat, and walked out into the lab's foyer to be greeted with a mess of things.

Grimmjow was writhing on ground like a beached whale, hyperventilating and cursing and holding his left arm in his hand. Ulquiorra had him pinned to the ground with his knees and Noitora had a foot on Grimmjow's legs. Szayel resisted the temptation to smack his forehead with his palm.

"What happened?" he asked in a chagrinned tone.

"He broke his arm!" Noitora said pointing at the pained Grimmjow.

"I didn't!" Grimmjow yelled. "Get off of me!"

"Don't struggle, Grimmjow." Szayel frowned and folded his arms, walking over to the comically pitiful horde. "Ulquiorra, Noitora, get off. You're making it worse."

Reluctantly, the two let go of Grimmjow. He stopped struggling, and was tired from the loss of carbon dioxide.

"Grimmjow, breathe slowly. Through your nose." Szayel said calmly. He offered his hand to Grimmjow, pulling him up. Ulquiorra and Noitora flanked him, watching carefully as Szayel inspected Grimmjow's arm, prodding here and there, eliciting cuss words from Grimmjow. They watched, holding their breath, as Szayel looked at it, turning it around here and there.

"It's definitely broken." Szayel said with a nod. "How did it happen?" The parade of losers trekked down a long hallway—The Hallway—where all of the medical stuff was found. They turned into the famous x-ray room, which Grimmjow was quite familiar with…how many x-rays had he had of his head already?

"He slipped on water in the kitchen. He landed on his elbow, I think." Ulquiorra explained shortly.

Szayel lead Grimmjow to the x-ray table, which Grimmjow glared at. Szayel pulled some dark little plates out of a drawer on the table, and laid both of Grimmjow's forearms on them.

"For comparison purposes, to see how bad the break is." Szayel muttered. He put a lead apron over Grimmjow, whose frown deepened, and then disappeared behind a wall with Ulquiorra and Noitora.

"You know the drill," Szayel chuckled, "Don't breathe and stay still."

The next thing he heard was a quick, shrill beep, and a slightly longer whirring sound.

And the image was promptly printed out, but Szayel took off to go position his arm differently and took two more snapshots. Three minutes later, Grimmjow joined them in the back. Szayel pinned the x-rays up on a light screen and gave a low whistle.

"Good job, Grimmjow." Noitora said sarcastically, sniggering.

"That's a complete, closed axial oblique fracture of both the ulna and radius." Szayel said with mild awe.

The x-ray revealed the ulna, snapped in half, pressing against the broken radius which was pressing against Grimmjow's skin. In fact, one part of the ulna was jabbing into one of the radius fragments. It was choppy break, and compared to his normal arm, gruesome.

"That'll need surgery right away." Szayel said. He snapped his fingers, and Lumina and Verona were at his side immediately.

"Lumina, go tell Ilforte to prep the anesthesia. Then you go prep the OR. Verona, get the metal plates ready—oh! And of course, the intramedular nails and my bone drill, just in case. Stat." Szayel smiled sweetly at them, while Grimmjow's face went from angry to scared to defeated in a matter of two seconds.

"Shit." He said curtly.

Already, Noitora and Ulquiorra were inching toward the door. But Szayel caught them.

"And you two get to help me! Won't that be fun?" Szayel cackled devilishly, rubbing his hands together. "I'm just tickled pink at the thought of orthopedic surgery."

Ulquiorra ground his teeth and Noitora instantly began to sweat as they followed Szayel to the pre op room, where Ilforte was already waiting. He didn't look happy, and was smacking his gum as he text messaged. He slapped the hospital bed with his hand, indicating Grimmjow to lie down there.

"Ulquiorra and Noitora, come with me to the scrub room." And, they had no choice but to follow Szayel, leaving Grimmjow and Ilforte alone.

"Damn, nice break." Ilforte said, inspecting the x-rays. He held the up to the light, looking them over thoroughly. He snickered and set down the x rays. "What is that, a closed axial?"

Grimmjow grunted in reply. He was too busy angsting about surgery and stuff. He had never had surgery before. This was so ridiculously abrupt! But he couldn't fight against Szayel, because that man was crazy with that tranquilizer gun…and Grimmjow was too hungry, too tired, too pained to fight back.

Ilforte jabbed Grimmjow's lower lip with a syringe full of magenta liquid. Grimmjow made a face and turned his head away.

"Drink it now, faggot." Ilforte hissed, shoving it into his mouth.

Grimmjow tasted something yummy; it reminded him of Fruity Pebbles™ with a touch of Cookie Crisp™. Well, until he took a breath. That's when the worst aftertaste on earth erupted on his tongue.

"That tastes like fucking shit!" Grimmjow exclaimed, looking around the room for water. There was nothing except for Ilforte, who was biting his lip in effort to not laugh, and some other stuff that wouldn't help Grimmjow.

"It's the sedative. When was the last time you ate or drank anything?"

"Oh, way too long ago. Like, fourteen hours ago." Grimmjow said casually.

"Perfect." Ilforte said, pressing his stethoscope to Grimmjow's chest. Grimmjow shuddered at how cold it was. Geez, Ilforte probably put it in a freezer beforehand. "No abnormalities, though your heart's beating a bit fast. Nervous?"

"Hell no! Nervousness is for pussies!" Grimmjow said vehemently, glaring.

"Well, Blood pressure says otherwise, but whatever." Ilforte said, peeling the cuff off of Grimmjow's good arm. "I'll back in about ten minutes. Take off that jacket and relax." Ilforte brusquely threw a warm blanket onto Grimmjow, who accepted it graciously and curled up as a dazed sleepiness started to come over him some minutes later. He was thinking of muffins and milk and Lucky Charms™ when he realized he was moving. Cracking an eye open, he saw walls pass by and felt the temperature dropped a good ten degrees. But he was too sleepy to care. Everything sounded like he was underwater, and his vision was bleary. So he closed his eyes again until the temperature dropped once again, a familiar beeping caused him open his eyes.

The operating room, in all its majestic glory, was oddly calm. He was oddly calm. Grimmjow didn't even notice when he was moved onto the operating table. Szayel stood over him.

"Alright, Grimmjow. Take deep breaths."

Ilforte put a mask over him, and after a few breaths, Grimmjow was slipping away. His eyelids fluttered and his body relaxed. Something sticky was put on his chest, and the last thing he remembered was something cold on his leg.

"Wow, that was so…easy." Ilforte remarked, administering a series of shots. Noitora reluctantly handed him the laryngoscope, which he flipped open gracefully and put in Grimmjow's mouth.

"Indeed." Szayel agreed with a nod.

"Yeah, well, I overdosed on the sedative." Ilforte shrugged, whacking Noitora (who wasn't paying attention), reminding him to hand over the tube. Ilforte slid it down his throat, leaving it right between his vocal cords and hooking it up to the respirator. The needlework was quickly taken care up, and the anesthesia flowed freely into Grimmjow's veins via IV.

Noitora and Ulquiorra thought it was so weird to see Grimmjow in this state. Grimmjow, one hundred percent testosterone and alpha male, avoided doctors like the plague because he was 'too strong' to get sick. Well, that theory was quickly disproved with his double pneumonia and his broken bones. And now his left arm was propped up on an extension of the operating table, where Szayel stood with a scalpel in hand.

"Ulquiorra, dip that little sponge into the iodine." Szayel commanded, pointing to a small bowl with something dark red in it. Ulquiorra did as told, and handed it to Szayel, who ran the sponge soaked with iodine up and down Grimmjow's forearm, turning it orange. And then, he sank the scalpel in the anterior part of the forearm, making a smooth deep cut just three inches from the crook of his elbow. Ulquiorra and Noitora suddenly felt ill. A sanguine odor was permeating the sterile air.

"What a break, huh?" Ilforte prompted, peering at the bone. It was clearly visible, through the muscle, which Szayel was pushing aside and forcing Noitora to hold with the retractors. Noitora just stared at the ceiling for a good five minutes until Szayel finished with the cutting. If Grimmjow weren't on the operating table, he would've fainted already.

"Ulquiorra, hand me the gauze."

He handed it to him, and watched with morbid fascination as Szayel cleaned all the blood, leaving a pure white bone, standing out against the reds and pinks of his skin and muscles. Ulquiorra shuddered and stood behind Noitora, both of which were positively trembling.

"It's a clean break though. No fragments, nothing." Szayel remarked. Carefully, he moved the bones into place, glancing at the x ray every so often. Ilforte was watching, curious. Noitora was beginning to fall into a Grimmjow-OR-syndrome state, swaying as the temperature changed around him. Ulquiorra pretended not to notice.

"Metal plates."

Noitora shakily deposited them in Szayel's hand. With utmost care, he placed them on the bone. There were little holes in them, for the screws. One of the metal plates was put on the side part of the ulna, the thinner, smaller bone and the one Grimmjow had presumably fallen on.

"Ulquiorra, come hold the plate down." Szayel stepped aside and winked at him, twirling a small drill in hand. He put the nails in the little holes, and drilled them in. The high pitched whirring was bothersome, but what was worse was a sharp, sour scent in the air—not one of decay, but an almost smoky scent. Ulquiorra assumed it was the bone's version of sawdust: bone dust. Szayel didn't really seem to notice; he was too concentrated. Drilling each nail in, he then got to work on the radius. The radius, the larger bone of the forearm, was in slightly better condition than the ulna. Although it had also been snapped in half, the fragments were still under his skin and were not mixing with the ulna's fragments.

"Next—Noitora, hold the plate down."

Szayel indicated the plate placed on the side of the radius with a bloody finger, and Noitora disdainfully came forward and held it down with the least effort possible. Ew…he didn't want his finger inside Grimmjow's arm. Noitora shoved Ulquiorra in front of him and escaped the operating room once again. He was so pro at this—chickening out and leaving to go watch his porn. Typical Noit.

The drilling began once again, and within ten minutes, the bones were held in place and Grimmjow's arm was magically repaired. Now it just needed to heal…

"Oh, by the way, that ultimate faggot Noitora escaped." Ilforte declared. He handed Szayel a curved needle and long, dark string. Stitches.

"That's alright." Szayel said suavely. He scowled, and shook his head. "But I do hope he knows what he's getting himself into."

Ilforte scoffed in assent, beckoning Ulquiorra over to him with his finger. He pointed to Szayel's hands, quickly stitching and tying and nimbly slipping the needle under Grimmjow's skin. His long, dexterous fingers were everywhere, stitching faster than a seamstress. Ulquiorra was impressed, he had to admit. But he had to look away when Ilforte pulled the tube out of Grimmjow's mouth. He tossed it onto a cart, shining with saliva under the bright lights. Eighteen centimeters of tight stitches later, Ulquiorra was peeling off his gloves and mask and uncomfortable attire while Szayel finished up, wrapping Grimmjow's arm in a tight bandage. Ilforte was with him.

"Good job." Ilforte said, smirking.

"I didn't do anything."

"Yeah, but you didn't leave or freak out." Ilforte pointed out, drying his hands. He tossed his full head of blonde hair, pulling out his cell phone. "You can leave…"

"Right."

-

-

Grimmjow was about to hop the border into consciousness. He heard everything around him, vaguely. It was all so far away. But so close. He felt slightly dizzy, and little disoriented, and he was very warm under soft and plushy sheets. His arm felt sore, but not too sore. He cracked an eye open and found himself staring into Szayel's face, who was standing over him.

"He's awake."

Chairs scraped the ground and the faces of Halibel, Ulquiorra, Stark, and even Apacci, Halibel's mean fraccion, stood over him.

Before anyone else had a chance to ask or talk, Szayel popped the question.

"Grimmjow, are you in any sort of pain right now?"

"A little…"

"I'll add some morphine." Szayel said, nodding.

"Oh, you're so pale." Stark remarked, shaking his head. You look so sick." Halibel nodded in agreement, while Apacci kind of rolled her eyes.

"I feel sick, too. It's so hot in here." Grimmjow muttered. The room spun around him, and he was becoming aware of the sickish feeling within him. And all he wanted was some Lucky Charms…what more could one ask for?

"That's the anesthesia. Some people have reactions to it." Szayel chuckled. "I'll add some nausea suppressant, too." Szayel tipped something into Grimmjow's IV bag.

"I'm hungry!" Grimmjow complained. He attempted to move his left arm, but it was weighed down by a thick bandage and pinned to his body in a sling.

"I'm not giving you food until you throw up or until you nausea goes away." Szayel said firmly, patting his shoulder. He smiled at him apologetically, and Grimmjow just frowned. "So get the Lucky Charms off your mind, alright? I'll be back in a few hours. If you need anything, Lumina and Verona are at your command."

The little fatties, Lumina and Verona, poked their heads into his room and waved at Grimmjow. Szayel left the room, lab coat billowing behind him.

"So…yeah. We're just screwing around. Visiting, you know?" Stark said casually, folding his arms.

"Feel better." Halibel said blandly. "Apacci brought you something."

Apacci threw a glare at Halibel as Halibel shoved the midget over to Grimmjow's bedside. She looked like she was about to cuss, but shut up, and threw a baggie of Lucky Charms at him brusquely.

"Just eat it. He's gone, anyway." Apacci murmured, stepping back.

Grimmjow raised an eyebrow and peered at her curiously.

"Thanks?" Grimmjow replied.

"Yeah. I'm leaving. I've got to go punch Mira Rose."

"I have to leave as well." Halibel said. The two girls left, leaving Stark and Ulquiorra, who had nothing to say and ended up leaving ten minutes later. Grimmjow was a happy camper now-- no one to harass him while he ate his Lucky Charms. He swallowed most it in one gulp, temporarily satisfied.

Too bad they didn't agree with his stomach. And too bad his satisfaction lasted only five minutes.

* * *

So, I couldn't find much info...but that's what imagination is for. And the chapter is not as long as usual, sadly. The next chapter I have planned is very interesting! It involves Halibel, lolz.

I miss writing. HAY GUYZ PLEEZE REVIEW.


	5. Chapter 5

**DOCTOR, I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!**

Not mine

I'm going to get flamed for this. Ohhh, I am _so _going to get flamed.

BUT SEE IF I CARE.

* * *

Some weeks later, Szayel was calmly sitting at one of his desks, sipping coffee primly and entering some data about a new element he had discovered the night before. It was a calm morning, about eight thirty or so, and Szayel still wore his bathrobe/lab coat over his pajamas. He had a touch of bed head, his glasses were slipping down his nose, and he looked like he'd be relaxing for most of the day. Or so he hoped, but hey, what were the chances of that? Ulquiorra's post tonsillectomy scabs were due to fall off at this time, and he'd probably come in here with some mild hemorrhage of the common carotid. That was easy to fix, but he would have preferred staying at his desk, alone, unbothered, antisocial, for the whole day.

Szayel checked his email, fixed his glasses, and was quite surprised when he heard footsteps coming from far down the hall, quick and rushed ones, too. Szayel looked up, mildly annoyed, expecting Ulquiorra complaining of pain (which he had been doing for the past fourteen days). Instead, Stark appeared in the doorway, a serious, almost scared look on his face that certainly made Szayel's eyebrows go up.

"Stark, hi…" he greeted calmly. "What's the problem today?"

"Halibel." Stark said shortly. He sighed and walked closer to the desk, looking around him like someone were to jump out from somewhere and kill him.

"Alright." Szayel nodded. "Well, shoot. What's the issue?"

"Is PMS curable?" Stark asked. "She's going crazy. At the moment, she's busy whining about pain…and…nausea" Stark shuddered. "When I try to offer painkiller, she gets mad at me and tries to attack me."

"Let me guess." Szayel interwove his fingers and tried to keep a scowl off his face. "She's complaining of ovarian cysts."

"That too." Stark said with a nervous laugh.

"She always thinks she has ovarian cysts." Szayel said bluntly, massaging his temples. It was so early…he didn't feel like dealing with a highly dysfunctional hypochondriac. In fact, he hadn't even had breakfast yet, and he had a gut feeling that Grimmjow would come in here wailing about itchy casts and pain later today.

"Yeah." Stark muttered. "All the time. Does she really have them?"

"No, of course not." Szayel scoffed. "Sonograms, MRIs, and just about everything else revealed there is nothing wrong with her. Are her menstrual periods irregular?"

Stark cringed and twiddled his thumbs nervously.

"Gee, Szayel, am I really the one to ask her when she has her period and whether it's regular…or on time, or whatever you call that damnation?"

"Well, what's so bad about asking?" Szayel prompted candidly. He looked over some records from his uranium enrichment program at Stark. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Seriously, why would_ I_ ask _her_?" Stark questioned, scowling. "Like…it would make me sound like a nosy pervert."

"It's not like it's a private thing." Szayel said bluntly, standing up from his desk. "Besides, you're her boyfriend."

"Well, you're a scientist, so you don't really think anything is private, gross, or weird." Stark muttered, folding his arms. "Should I go get her?"

"No, get me Grimmjow." Szayel murmured, waving him off.

-

-

Stark was not happy. He went to go get help from the one and only scientist in Hueco Mundo, and instead he was sent to go get the most dysfunctional, squeamish and bad mouthed Espada of all—Grimmjow.

Hell, Grimmjow wasn't even awake at this time.

Which was why Stark was so hesitant to knock on the door or go in. Of course, he could handle Grimmjow, since Stark was up in the top three, the first, to be exact, but his laziness and apathy would cause him to hold back.

Either way, he rapped on the door harshly and waited for about a minute. Just as he was about to leave, the door opened, and Grimmjow popped his head out.

Evidently, he had been sleeping just thirty seconds ago. Bed head, more so than usual, had attacked his messy hair; he was pale and winced against the light.

"What?" he slurred. "It's nine in the damn mornin'…"

"Szayel wants you." Stark said curtly.

"What the hell?" Grimmjow muttered. He rubbed his eyes (accidently hitting his nose with his cast) and muttered some curse words. He fixed his boxers, decorated with the Pink Panther™ (Stark snickered; his own boxers were much fancier) and gave Stark a suspicious, confused look.

"Just come with me." Stark said. His annoyance was rising, and he was tempted to slap Grimmjow awake. "Don't ask questions, Szayel just wants you for some reason."

Grimmjow groaned and stomped out of his room, trailing sluggishly behind Stark. He wanted to go get something to eat. Chocolate milk, milk, anything would satisfy him. He almost ran into the kitchen when they reached the bottom story, but Stark caught his arm and dragged him to the doors of the lab. He pushed Grimmjow in and closed the door behind him.

"Where's that fucker at?" Grimmjow murmured, looking around the lab with scorn. Oh, he hated this place. Twice already he had fainted here and hit his head. Hard. He still had a bruise and bump from last time.

"He's in his office." Stark answered, walking deeper into the lab. For once, they did not go down the famous hallway, but straight in to a world of weird contraptions and tables laden with Bunsen burners, flasks, and strange liquids that were smoking.

"He has an office?" Grimmjow asked. He jumped back as one of the flasks began to shake and bubble. "I thought the fag was so screwed up he didn't believe in organization. Case in point." Grimmjow pointed vaguely to a stack of papers.

Stark shook his head and sighed, leading Grimmjow into a room off of the right, and entering Szayel's office.

Szayel looked up from his laptop and gave a curt smile.

"Oh…hi. Thanks for bringing him, Stark." Szayel said politely.

Stark noticed he wasn't wearing a bathrobe, his hair had been combed, and he was sitting straight at his desk. He looked stately and collected. Apparently, he had taken the time to fix himself up a little bit. Stark scoffed inwardly at the thought.

"Well, I'm going to need your help—" Szayel began, standing up.

"No." Grimmjow said firmly. "I'm not helping anybody with anything involving blood, gore, or guts."

"That wasn't was I was going to say," Szayel said testily, waving some papers in his face. "What I _was _going to say was that we'll need your help with Halibel today."

Grimmjow frowned.

"What? What's the deal with her all of a sudden?" Grimmjow questioned. He plopped himself down in the nearest chair, leaning back and sighing loudly.

"Are you familiar with the term PMS?" Stark asked, eyes flashing.

"Uhh…nope." Grimmjow said shortly. He yawned and looked around the room with a scowl on his face. He had heard of PMS from Noitora, but never thought anything of it. In fact, Grimmjow thought PMS was something Noitora had invented when they were drunk a few months ago.

"It stands for premenstrual syndrome." Szayel put in. He sat on his desk and folded his arms. Looking over the rims of his glasses, he gave Grimmjow an indecipherable look.

"Pre…menstrual?" Grimmjow looked bewildered.

"You don't know what the menstrual cycle is?" Stark demanded, waving his arms around. He gave a short laugh and grinned, shaking his head. "I thought you knew by now."

Szayel blinked a few times.

"Seriously? Then I'll have to teach you. He turned around, and pulled a projector screen down. He snapped his fingers, the room went dark, and there was a simple diagram of the menstrual organs on the screen. Stark and Grimmjow exchanged glances that seemed to scream "What the hell?!". Szayel pulled out a pointed from God knows where, cleared his throat, and gave them all a small, placid smile.

Grimmjow looked positively disgusted, while Stark didn't really react to the diagram.

"Let's start with the ovaries." His pointer tapped the two little white things. "The ovaries make the eggs—"

"Whoa! Girls lay eggs?" Grimmjow began to laugh raucously, slapping his knee.

"No. These eggs are microscopic. They are cells. Basically, babies come from the ovaries, but the eggs need to be fertilized first. An egg is released from the ovaries roughly every twenty eight days." Szayel explained affably. His pointer drifted past the ovaries. "Fallopian tubes. This is where the egg travels to get to the uterus." He tapped a larger structure on the diagram several times. "Here, the uterus."

"That's a gay name!" Grimmjow said loudly. "And what the hell? Eggs travel?"

"Yes, through the tubes." Szayel answered. "Anyway, the uterus is where the eggs settles and waits until it is fertilized. Assuming it is going to be fertilized, nutrients and tissue from the woman's body settle here to make an environment for the egg to grow—"

"Wait, so the egg grows big enough to be laid?"

Stark smacked his forehead with his palm and groaned loudly.

"No, Grimmjow." Szayel said slowly. He widened his eyes and spoke like he were speaking to a mentally retarded child. "The egg grows into an embryo, then a fetus—a baby, in other words. It needs the tissue and nutrient to grow."

"Ohhhhh, I get it!" exclaimed Grimmjow.

"Good!" Szayel smiled and nodded vigorously. "But I'm not done yet." His pointer prodded the uterus lightly. "If the egg is not fertilized—"

"Fertilized? What do you fertilize it with?" Grimmjow questioned. He put his feet on Szayel's desk and yawned widely. Szayel did not appreciate his disrespectful behavior.

"The sperm, dammit!" Stark said in exasperation. "In case you don't what that is—"

"I do know what it is!" Grimmjow retorted. "But I didn't know it helped make babies."

"Well, that's what having sex is for."

"_Moving on_," Szayel said loudly through clenched teeth, smacking the screen with his pointer angrily. "Should the egg remain unfertilized, the woman's body gets rid of it in the menstrual period, which occurs every four weeks or so. This expulsion of the unfertilized egg, tissue, and nutrients through the vagina, which is—"

"Hey, I'm familiar with that part of the female anatomy." Grimmjow snickered. He folded his arm and winked at Szayel, who rolled his eyes. Even so, a smile was tugging at his lips, though he fought it masterfully.

"This expulsion of the unfertilized egg, tissue, and nutrients is known as the menstrual period." Szayel explained. "Halibel must be going through this right now."

"Did I really need to know that?" Grimmjow muttered. He made a face and dropped his feet from his desk, pouting like a little kid.

"Yeah, 'cause we're dealing with her today." Stark snapped.

"Yes, well, the menstrual period brings several temporary changes in the woman's body. Hormonal changes trigger PMS, premenstrual syndrome." Szayel snickered involuntarily and adjusted his glasses. "In PMS, the woman is moodier, more irritable, and suffers from menstrual headaches along with various other things. Menstrual cramps, crying jags, all of that stuff." Szayel explained. He gave a great sigh, and tossed the pointer down on his desk.

"So…Halibel is in PMS. Is she going on a rampage or something?" Grimmjow asked, glaring at the diagram.

"Yes!" cried Stark. He waved a hand, laying it on his temple and exhaling irritably. Halibel's PMS, if she ever got it, was mild, but when pain came in she went crazy. As it turns out, Halibel is a huge sissy for pain. Poke her gently with a needle and she goes insane. It was ridiculous. "She almost tried to kill me when I gave her painkillers. Painkillers are supposed to solve the problem."

"So remove her ovaries."

Szayel cringed and choked on his spit.

"No, we don't want to render her sterile." Szayel said. But when he saw the confounded looks on the others' faces, he decided to rephrase that. "We don't want her to not be able to have kids."

"Ohhh, gotcha."

Szayel did not understand. It was so much easier to use more specific words instead of putting everything 'the short way' when it ended up sounding longer and more confusing.

"Well, I don't know, just put alcohol on the ovaries and put a fake uterus in." Grimmjow said flippantly.

"That wouldn't work." Szayel shook his head. "I may be a highly skilled surgeon and doctor, but the female reproductive organs are very fragile." He frowned at Grimmjow. "She's only suffering from cramps, not ovarian cysts, a disease, or anything like that. Plus, that's the most ridiculous suggestion I think I've ever heard."

"Alright, then…" Grimmjow sighed shortly and looked up at the ceiling, lost in thought. "So, what now?"

"Well, the only way to get her to calm down is to sedate her and then force the painkillers down her throat." Szayel replied. He started rummaging through his desk, while Stark and Grimmjow, curious, craned their necks to see what he was looking for. Szayel grinned at them, and removed his hands from the drawer to reveal a long, thin needle and a small bottle of painkillers.

Grimmjow jumped back and Stark closed his eyes, frowning. He didn't particularly like the idea of Szayel holding Halibel down while jamming the needle in her arm, and then wheedling the pills down her throat. He suddenly felt cold.

"On second thought." Szayel murmured, wagging a finger. He shoved the items back in his desk drawer, and looked at them both very seriously. He watched them for a long time. A very, very long time. Stark was picking at his nails while Grimmjow was shoving a pen down his cast to itch his arm. He was in deep concentration. And finally, Szayel spoke.

"Stark. Could you bring Halibel over here?" Szayel asked, smiling cordially. "I'd like to do a quick examinatio to verify the cause of her nausea...and pain."

Stark looked up from his hangnail, mildly disoriented.

"Uhh…" Stark looked at Grimmjow for help, which was completely pointless because Grimmjow didn't even know what was going on. "Sure. Yeah. I'll be back in a bit." Stark left, leaving Grimmjow and Szayel alone together.

"Damn, this piece of shit is so itchy!" Grimmjow exclaimed, furiously jamming the pencil further down into his cast. Szayel was not pleased. He cleared his throat loudly and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Well, you've got five weeks left." Szayel said quite bluntly. "I'm surprised you haven't gotten used to it yet." He sat down in his chair, pulling his laptop closer to him and continuing his report. Grimmjow dumped himself in a chair, grimacing, groaning with irritation. He pulled the pen out of his cast and threw it against the wall.

"Be mature…" Szayel said through clenched teeth. He briefly glanced at Grimmjow and shook his head, sighing. Eventually, he had to give Grimmjow some candy to make him shut up about his cast and female reproductive systems. And ten minutes later, Stark walked into the office, brow furrowed. Halibel was not with him.

"Szayel, we have a problem." Stark said, shifting uncomfortably.

Szayel's yellow eyes focused on Stark's concerned, agitated face.

"Halibel kind of threw up…" Stark muttered. He trailed off and nervously ran a hand through his thick curls, averting everyone's eyes.

"Eww!" Grimmjow whined, shuddering.

"Shut up, Grimmjow." Szayel said sharply, pelting him with a pen. "Oh, dear. Is she alright?"

"No, not really." Stark said emphatically. "I mean, she's kind of being sick in the foyer."

"And you left her alone?" Grimmjow demanded. He frowned. "Well, whatever. All she needs is some Sprite™ and stuff." He stood up, stretching.

"W-Well, she's…standing…and stuff. I don't know, just fix her!" Stark murmured. He folded his arms. Szayel put his laptop back on the desk gently, and dragged a pissy Grimmjow and hesitant Stark out to the foyer, to meet her.

Out in the foyer, they found her walking shakily down the medical hallway, using the wall for support. Szayel and Stark ran over to her, whereas Grimmjow hung back. Szayel forced a water bottle in her hands and Stark put an arm around her waist to steady her.

"Not feeling so well today, huh?" Szayel said, smiling apologetically. She shook her head. He picked a thermometer out his pocket, coaxing it into her mouth. Her temperature reading was normal. Szayel led them into an examination room, dragging Grimmjow in (against his will, of course). He managed to stay in the doorway, waiting for a chance to escape.

"So, Halibel, what seems to be the problem?" Szayel asked. His fingers were moving up and down her jaw line, feeling for swollen lymph nodes. But all was normal…hmm. Perhaps it was the average stomach flu.

"I don't feel good." She replied coldly.

"Are you on your period?"

"I don't know. No." she answered, folding her arms over her ample chest. She sighed and leaned against Stark, who patted her sweetly. Szayel exchanged a suspicious look with Stark. Not on her period? Grimmjow saw the affection, and suddenly felt the urge to gouge his eyes out. Hopefully they wouldn't start making out or being weird.

"When was the last time you had it?"

"Two months ago? Six weeks…I don't know. Whatever." She replied.

Szayel sighed, and looked at her carefully. She was pallid with nausea. But she looked normal. No weight change, or any other change he could see.

"Food poisoning, perhaps. It might even be your period, and the upset stomach from craps. Or an allergy. Have you taken any medicines recently?" Szayel asked. "And what was the last thing you ate?"

"No. The last thing I ate was last night's lasagna." She replied. Halibel made a face and began to eye the trash can.

"Let me add that it was delicious!" Grimmjow said under his breath. "Who knew Ulquiorra could cook?" An awkward silence followed. Nobody said anything for at least ten seconds. Szayel cleared his throat, Stark sneezed, and Halibel coughed ominously, pressing a hand to her mouth.

"Anyway…" Szayel adjusted his glasses. "No one else is sick from that, so it must not be the lasagna. Lay down, Halibel."

Halibel went limp on the examination table, and Szayel forced the clingy Stark off. He then pulled up Halibel's shirt and palpated lightly, starting near her stomach and slowly moving down to where he appendix should be. He pressed down, and let go. Halibel did not even bat an eye.

"Did that hurt?" Szayel asked, pulling her shirt down. He helped her sit back up.

"Not at all." She answered. Szayel nodded, putting a finger to his lip in deep thought. This was quite bizarre…it's not appendicitis. But what more could it be?

"Are you in any pain?" Szayel asked, scowling. This was quite bizarre!

"No..." she replied, shooting an askance look at Stark.

"I see…" Szayel said, nodding. But then out of his pocket came a small cup. "Go pee in this for me."

Grimmjow snickered loudly behind his hand.

Halibel's bleak blue eyes stared blankly at it. Apparently, what he said hadn't quite registered yet.

"Excuse me?" she said blankly.

"I'll need you to pee in this cup." Szayel repeated patiently.

"Why?" Stark demanded, frowning. He folded his arms and glared at Szayel.

"It's crucial to my diagnosis." Szayel replied, putting the cup in her hand. "Bathroom is right across the hall." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, smiling sincerely. Halibel, perplexed, took it from his hand and lumbered off to the bathroom. As soon as she was gone, Stark erupted with questions.

"What are you going to do?" he demanded, glaring at Szayel. Szayel had his hands clasped in front of him primly, and he gave a brief little smile, humming pleasantly. Whatever was going on in his mind sure was well planned.

"Urinalysis is an excellent foundation for diagnosis." Szayel explained affably.

"So, like, if I peed and you looked it under those microscope dealios you'd be able to tell what the fuck was wrong with me?" Grimmjow asked, bewildered.

"Indeed."

"It's pretty crazy, yeah." Stark said, nodding in assent.

And some minutes later, Halibel returned, and handed the cup to Szayel, who thanked her and immediately left to go test it. She sat down next to Stark, sighing.

"I took the liberty of throwing up again." She said bluntly, sighing.

Stark patted her shoulder gingerly.

"Hey! Stop complaining!" Grimmjow stomped his foot and put his hands on his hips, glowering—pouting—at them both. They stared back, faces registering no emotion. "When I had my surgery and I had those Lucky Charms™ afterwards, I puked Lucky Charms for three days straight!"

Stark sniggered loudly and Halibel made a face, turning away.

"What?" Grimmjow cried. "It's true!"

"Szayel told you not to eat." Halibel said candidly.

"Apacci made me. Peer pressure." Grimmjow replied. He hopped up onto the counter, kicking his legs slightly and looking around the room in disapproval. Oh, how he hated medicine. By now, he was lying under the cabinets, bored. Why couldn't anybody here in Las Noches be normal?

Szayel returned to the room, smiling placidly. There was something about the way his eyes glittered, something about the way his fingers kept intertwining with each other. He beamed at them all.

"Halibel, you're pregnant." He announced. A million watt smile might've blinded them all.

Stark lost all color in his face in a matter of seconds. He had taken on Ulquiorra's pallor, and he looked like he'd be on the floor, out cold, in a very short while. Halibel choked on her spit, and Grimmjow…well, Grimmjow banged his head against the cabinets with surprise. So now, to join Szayel's laughter and Halibel's hacking, there was cursing. Lovely.

"Y-You're kidding, right?" Stark questioned, trying to laugh. "I mean…" he pointed to himself and then at Halibel, at a loss for words.

"Yes, Stark, he means that you guys had sex and BAM you made a baby apparently, and you're the father and mother so go tell Aizen and get the fuck out before he eats your faces and ALSO don't forget to get marriage papers signed and I want to be the godfather and oh my God this hurts ow." He rubbed his head ferociously, gritting his teeth.

"What he said." Szayel said, tipping his head toward Grimmjow. "So, congratulations! Let's go tell Aizen!"

"I'm going to throw up on him."

"I want those marriage papers!" Stark said frenetically. "My child won't be a bastard child!" But then, a strange look came over his face. A seductive, sexy look. He put an arm around Halibel, suggestively waggling his eyebrows at her. "Hali-babe, this marriage will grant us sinless pleasure, oh yes…" he purred. Halibel halfheartedly tried to push him off, but gave up and sat there, looking sick, weak, and defeated.

"But…I was so sure I had ovarian cysts…and they popped…rupturing my ovaries, meaning I couldn't reproduce…" Halibel murmured. She shook her head slowly. "Damn. Never mind."

"We'll come back later and talk about the other important stuff, such as diet and care and things to prevent morning sickness, which is what you are suffering from." Szayel said. He beckoned them with his finger, and the whole troupe (including Grimmjow) went over to Aizen's throne room, where the news was delivered.

-

-

Was Aizen mad? That man…does he even get mad? Aizen didn't bat an eye. He just smiled placidly and forced them to sign the marriage papers right then and there. And, he even cracked a joke about naming the kid after him. He didn't seem mad, but this was Aizen. One had to believe in miracles when it came to him. The group broke up, leaving Grimmjow to stalk over to the kitchen. He was pleased with himself. He didn't faint, nor did he have a sudden qualm of nausea—because there was no blood!

In the kitchen, he found Ulquiorra (who seemed to live there nowadays), Noitora, and Halibel's fraccion. Apacci was fighting with Mira Rose over the Cinammon Toast Crunch™, squalling like pissed off cats. Noitora was reading a porno, drinking milk and eating cold pizza. Ulquiorra was picking through the fridge.

"Hey! Hey, everyone! Halibel's pregnant!" Grimmjow yelled, smirking.

Noitora spit out his milk, choking. Apacci and Mira Rose let go of the cereal, screamed, cussed, and started harassing Grimmjow. Ulquiorra, in mid-chew, dropped his toast on the ground, staring a Grimmjow with his huge green eyes.

"No fucking way!" Apacci yelled, stomping her foot. "Damn it!"

"HA! Apacci, you owe me twenty bucks! Listen to me when it comes to sex, bitch!" Mira Rose said, laughing raucously. She shoved her expectant hand in Apacci's face. Apacci, cursing loudly, stuffed a twenty in her hand.

"Hello? She's pregnant, you retards!" Noitora screeched, waving his arms around like a madman. "As in, she got knocked up by that bastard Stark—"

"You faggot!" Apacci, Mira Rose, and even Sun Sun (the sanest one) tramped over to Noitora, irate. "Stark is much better than you!"

"Don't be a hater, Noitora." Sun Sun said calmly.

Grimmjow watched the ordeal, entertained. By now, Apacci and Mira Rose were foaming at the mouth and going crazy having a fight with Noitora. He shrugged. It was time for some Lucky Charms. He opened the bag, taking a deep sniff of sugar and carbs. But his bliss was interrupted.

"OW!"

"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—Apacci! There's a fork in your leg!"

* * *

STARKxHALI, son.

_Flames will be used to spark a flame in their loooooove. Or, they will be used to start my fireplace._

Haha, I needed a change. I do hope you liked it! I had some fun writing this. Next chapter, we've got some fun stuff planned—a special appearance from Nel and other stuff. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Doctor, I Bleeding

Not mine

* * *

So, my computer's hard drive fried itself. Which is the reason I have not been updating. But I have a new laptop (YEAH TOSHIBA!) so I can be a total fiend and update. Also, I'm on spring break. **Please review!**

* * *

"Noitora!"

"Oh my God!"

Ulquiorra rolled his eyes and left the kitchen, leaving a bleeding Apacci and Mira Rose, who was jerking the meat cleaver out of the kitchen drawer. Noitora was sitting there, rigid, frozen with fear, staring at the hand he had just used to impale Apacci with.

Grimmjow watched, blanching, as a bright red stained Apacci's white hakama. As she jumped around, screaming in pain, tiny drops of blood flew from her injury. In his mouth, the Lucky Charms he was eating took on a dusty, bitter flavor as he felt his face become cold. A qualm of nausea came over him suddenly.

"You faggots! Why are you interrupting my breakfast?" Grimmjow demanded angrily, hobbling out of the kitchen.

Szayel heard the ungodly racket even before he went into the kitchen. All he wanted was some coffee, but no, that wasn't going to happen. He'd have to assess and a treat (or triage) some ridiculous band-aid injury instead of moseying back to his lab and starting a uranium enrichment program. Just then, Grimmjow scampered out of the kitchen, box of cereal tucked under his arm while he muttered some nasty things under his breath. Szayel sighed much louder than he intended. He hadn't even walked into the kitchen when Ulquiorra calmly walked out.

"I thought that was you; I could smell the bleach and dead stuff on you." He said flatly. Ulquiorra tried to make a joke by indicating Szayel's scent of autopsy, Szayel didn't pick up on it. "Don't even bother. Apacci has been stabbed by a fork in the leg by Noitora and she and Mira Rose are attempting to cleave his head off with the meat cleaver because he insulted the husband of their assigned espada." Ulquiorra let out a breath and shook his head. "Confusing."

"Not really." Szayel smiled apologetically. "Just incredibly retarded."

Ulquiorra didn't take too well to the reply. His expression darkened and he stepped aside with a brief, curt gesture of the hand, indicating the kitchen.

"See for yourself, Dr. Grantz…" Ulquiorra said glibly. He turned on his heel and left, tailcoats billowing out behind him as he stalked off, hands in his pockets. Szayel would've replied with something pleasant, but seeing Ulquiorra's comment was said without an ounce of sincerity, he just left it at that and braved the havoc inside the kitchen.

The table had been shoved into a corner, making room for the 'BATTLE ARENA', a wide space where Noitora and Apacci tried to strangle each other. Circling them were a few other Arrancar, including espada. Stark was leading a bunch of gamblers, accepting the money and votes and dispersing money to people.

"You're placing how much on Noitora…?" he asked one of the gamblers.

"Two cents."

"You're serious?"

"Yeah, it's my pocket change. Losing it won't dramatically decrease my funds…I'm an anesthesiologist, after all."

"But you don't get paid." Stark said with a small frown.

"Oh. Damn."

Apparently, no one had noticed the tall, dignified scientist stride in. Szayel hadn't even spent a minute there and he knew Ulquiorra was right—it would've been a waste of his time. There was no blood on the floor, or anywhere at all. Noitora and Apacci were trash talking each other, circling around each other like hungry lions. So, Szayel deemed it an official waste of time, and took a detour to his room to take a catnap. Being awesome wasn't easy, and he hadn't been inside his room in days. In fact, Szayel hardly ever slept, because anything was possible with caffeine and a touch of pills to prevent hallucinations and excessive irritability, unpleasant but understandable side effects of insomnia or just staying up late. He had a bad habit of making sleep the last priority on his priority list, which was overridden with crazy ideas (unwritten, of course) and projects that he would soon execute. In fact, he just remembered—uranium must be handled very carefully and mustn't be left alone. He turned around and headed back to his lab, but not in a hurry. His coffee was still warm. The energy produced by the uranium would heat it up, and he could test it on one of the low rank arrancar. Fun stuff!

-

-

Sometime later, a little past noon, Ulquiorra crept into the kitchen. It was devoid of fellow Espada, and the only sound was the refrigerator's unwavering hum. Ulquiorra breathed a short sigh of relief. The fact everybody was out of the kitchen meant he could make lunch in peace. What a miracle. Ulquiorra moseyed over to the pantry, pulled open the door, and picked some soup cans, crackers, and seasonings. From the fridge, he pulled out some beef and a random assortment of vegetables that were too green and perfect to look like they hadn't been grown in a lab. No matter. Ulquiorra dumped the ingredients on the kitchen island. He took the can of soup, slipped a finger under the metal piece on top, and pulled, but almost immediately he felt a sharp, deep pain.

"_Shit_." he hissed, recoiling. He looked down into his left hand to see a cut, shaped like a parenthesis, about four inches long in the skin starting at the base of his thumb and all the way up to the skin under his index and middle fingers. But his whole hand was coated in red seconds later.

Ulquiorra put his hand under the faucet, watching as the water swirled with the reddish brown on his blood. The cut stung insanely, and it bled profusely.

"Damn it," Ulquiorra said dully. Of course, something had to interrupt his peace. A paper towel would solve the problem. He pressed it to left hand, for a good thirty seconds, and then decided to move it. It would be just fine.

Setting the soup in a pot and cranking up the heat, he threw the vegetables in and proceeded to cut up the beef. The white trim of fat was to be cut off—Ulquiorra couldn't stand the taste of animal fat. Plucking a long, serrated knife from the drawer, he proceeded to shave off the unwanted fat. Ulquiorra had hit a point of perfect concentration, and lost in thought, he didn't even hear snickers and footsteps that came into the kitchen.

"What's up, bitch?!" Grimmjow yelled in his ear, blowing an air horn.

Ulquiorra jumped, his right arm twitched violently, and a new pain on the same hand erupted. Meanwhile, Grimmjow did a little leprechaun dance as he laughed maniacally.

"Shit," Ulquiorra said, rushing to the sink once again, letting the water from the faucet carry his blood into the sink. But then, Ulquiorra noticed something. The first wound hadn't stopped bleeding. It had been ten minutes, and it showed no sign of letting up. The second one was seeping blood as well, and a good chunk of the skin on his thumb was missing. Grimmjow hadn't noticed. When Ulquiorra looked up to glare at Grimmjow, he found himself a little lightheaded and nauseous.

"Bam! I scared you, didn't I?" Grimmjow said, smirking. He snickered.

"Whatever," Ulquiorra said wearily. The temperature in the room was changing, and he was feeling cold. "You are immature and much too old for such behavior."

"I'm not too old for fun, retard." Grimmjow said with a frown. "Duh. So, what's up?"

"Cooking," Ulquiorra said tersely. The room was contracting and expanding around him, and everything felt like he was underwater. His hand was cold, so cold.

"What are you cooking?"

Everything folded in and out of itself, and the temperature was fluctuating. Ulquiorra found himself overcome with thirst now, but he couldn't reach the fridge. He was too weak, too tired, to make the move.

"Grimmjow," Ulquiorra said in a breathless voice, "please get me some water. I'm not feeling well all of a sudden."

Grimmjow's face went from indignant to confused and finally a little wary.

"Sure…" Grimmjow muttered. He fetched a water bottle out of the fridge and handed it—civilly—to Ulquiorra, who gratefully accepted. Grimmjow frowned at him, and then surveyed the cooking area, a little suspicious. He saw one drop of red blood and spotted more on the floor and at the edge of the sink.

"I-Is that blood?" Grimmjow demanded, pointing a shaking finger at the spots.

"Yes," Ulquiorra panted, "Nothing special. I just cut myself, and everything's just fine." However, Ulquiorra accidentally withdrew the bloody hand from his pocket to use for support against the kitchen island.

Grimmjow's blue eyes double in size and his peachy pallor became the sickly color of rotten milk when he saw Ulquiorra's mangled hand. There was so much red, the skin on part of his thumb was off, and Ulquiorra was ashen, shallow breaths racking his body.

"Um…uh…" Grimmjow fumbled for the words, heart pounding in his ears. "I'm going to get Szayel…"

And he was gone, leaving Ulquiorra alone.

-

-

"Szayel! Szayel!" Grimmjow scrambled around the laboratory, calling Szayel's name and cussing as he jumped over stacks of books and tables, searching for the scientist.

Szayel's head snapped up from a smoking flask that had absorbed all of his attention, wondering who was calling him. He caught sight of Grimmjow's head of messy hair hopping around highly important documents, and deemed it best for him to find Grimmjow instead of the other way around.

"What is it, Grimmjow?" Szayel asked mildly, smiling briefly.

"Ulquiorra is bleeding to death in the kitchen!" Grimmjow said hysterically. He placed a hand on his chest and tried to catch his breath. For some reason, Szayel had a visceral feeling that Grimmjow wasn't lying. He was too worked up to be lying, as Grimmjow didn't do well with blood. But hey, he hadn't fainted yet.

"Take me to him."

"Bring bandages, man, bandages."

The two walked quickly down the hallway to the kitchen, which was not too far away. They could've sprinted or sonido'd, but really, that was for emergencies. Szayel walked into the kitchen boldly, followed by Grimmjow, and immediately flanked Ulquiorra, who was leaning against the counter, eyelids drooping over dull green eyes. He barely acknowledged Szayel, who offered some support by grabbing Ulquiorra's arm.

"Let me see." He said, grabbing Ulquiorra's limp hand, streaming blood. Szayel turned it over and over, frowning. "This could be an arterial bleed."

"W-What the hell's that s-supposed to mean?" Grimmjow demanded, waving his arms around.

"He sliced an artery open. This is serious."

And then, Ulquiorra went limp. Szayel held him up.

"Oh my God, did he just die?" Grimmjow yelled, pointing at Ulquiorra, now in Szayel's grasp. Szayel was genuinely concerned now, but he found a rapid, weak pulse in the jugular vein.

"No, it's syncope." Szayel said coolly.

"Synthesis? Syn-go-pee? Symbiosis? What?" Grimmjow raised an eyebrow.

"_Syncope_," Szayel said emphatically. "He passed out, fainted. Let's go to my lab."

"Is this an emergency? I think we should sonido."

"Of course it's an emergency!" Szayel rolled his eyes, and sonido'd his and Ulquiorra's asses out of there, only to appear in a clean exam room milliseconds later. He placed Ulquiorra's body on a bed, summoning Lumina, Verona, and Grimmjow.

"Lumina, cross match him and prepare the cannulae. Verona, get me the suture kit." Szayel turned to Grimmjow, who blanched and inched toward the door. "And you're going to help me."

"Oh dear Lord…" Grimmjow said under his breath. He watched, nausea kicking in with extreme ferocity, as Lumina drew a little bit of blood from Ulquiorra's arm. She scurried off with dark blood in the syringe just as Verona returned, depositing the suture kit in Szayel's arms. He placed it on a table, flipped it open, and made a mad dash for the sink to wash his hands while Verona put some sticky thingies on Ulquiorra's chest. It seemed Szayel was ubiquitous, because he appeared seconds later, pulling on some latex gloves, next to Grimmjow, who was dragged to the sink by a grinning Verona, who told him to "scrub a dub dub". Grimmjow did as told, and then pulled the gloves on. He found them extremely tight, and over his cast they didn't fit too well. But it worked, and he joined Szayel, who was threading the curved suture needle, glinting ominously in the bright light.

"He's type A negative," Lumina said flatly. "Shall I get the blood?"

"Yes, get Ilforte too. Three pints of A negative, thank you." Szayel said tensely. He beckoned Grimmjow over.

"I want you to watch Ulquiorra. The cardiac monitor shows a fast heart rate, hence the beeping. Make sure he's breathing." Grimmjow caught the stethoscope that was thrown at him. He examined it at arm's length, scowling. But he shrugged and it in his ears, pressing the metal circle to Ulquiorra's bony chest. He could hear fast heartbeat, and the whooshing sound of air exiting his lungs was faint and shallow.

"It's shallow and faint," Grimmjow reported, pulling the stethoscope off of him. Szayel looked at the cardiac monitor.

"In that case, he can be intubated when Ilforte arrives." Szayel said tensely. "It would be best, since he's already unconscious." He returned to the sutures.

"Well, damn," Ilforte joined the chaos, another kit of something tucked under his arm. "Did this kid gore himself up or what?"

No one bothered to reply, because Ulquiorra's heart rate took a dramatic jump, nearly bordering tachycardia.

"Just start the transfusion," Szayel said testily. Grimmjow was mesmerized by the needle now. It was clamped in scissors, which Szayel used to pull in and out of the skin at an astonishing rate. However, Grimmjow cringed every time it popped out from the skin. Within minutes, Szayel had the main wound sewn up and tight, and from there he pulled the laryngoscope off a nearby table. Flicking his wrist gracefully, the laryngoscope flipped open. Standing behind Ulquiorra, he inserted it in his mouth, displaced his tongue to the right, and jerked the instrument up and away. The little slit of the vocal cords was visible now.

"See that tube over there?" Szayel asked, pointing with his free hand. Grimmjow nodded and gingerly handed it to Szayel, who slipped right between the slit masterfully. He adjusted something on the attached tube, and finally hooked it up to the ventilator. Grimmjow had seen the intubation before, but this time he didn't have the need to run out of the room.

But now, Ilforte was starting the transfusion.

Blood, dark, rich, and red was in a pouch suspended from a metal hook. A thin plastic tube was running from it, entwined in other tubes with a stopcock near the top, but it wouldn't be needed until Ilforte finished with the needlework. Grimmjow looked at what Ilforte was doing, and immediately felt his stomach flip over, contract, and spin around. Ilforte was pushing a long, rather fat needle into a vein in the middle of Ulquiorra's forearm. The needle had a little blue cap on top, almost like a decoration, but Grimmjow had a feeling it wasn't there for décor. There was a shorter plastic tube attached to the cap. Apparently, it was called an IV cannula. Once the needle was all the way in, Ilforte snapped the plastic tube off. Ilforte caught him staring and smiled/smirked at Grimmjow, just Ulquiorra's blood dribbled out. Grimmjow moaned and shuddered very violently.

"Relax, Grimmjow," Szayel said gently, "Relax. You'll be fine."

"It's so _gross_!" Grimmjow said, fanning himself with his hand. The familiar feeling was coming back to him. Intense nausea, knees slackening, folding room…

Ilforte smirked as he inserted another tube, the one connected to the pouch of blood for the transfusion. Grimmjow twitched involuntarily, stomach churning. Ilforte twisting a plastic ring all the way down to the blue part of the cannula, and flipped the switch on the stopcock just below the pouch, opening up the flow. The blood filled the tube and ran into Ulquiorra's bloodstream smoothly.

"Ewww…" Grimmjow murmured, trembling. He felt pretty sick, but his knees weren't weak and tremulous, nor had the temperature magically changed. The room stabilized, and he saw clearly again. Damn. He wanted Lucky Charms more than anything right now. Confidence surged through him now.

And finally, Ilforte taped the tube to Ulquiorra's skin. He glanced at the cardiac monitor, and then at Grimmjow. Grimmjow was unnerved by the way his lip twitched, threatening a smile. He leaned toward Szayel and whispered something. Szayel shrugged and slathered the sutures with antibiotic solution, leaving the clean up to Lumina and Verona.

"Grimmjow, come help me with something. We're going to get some fluids into Ulquiorra." Szayel said. He peeled the bloody gloves off his hands and tossed them into a trash can, pulling on new ones.

Grimmjow stared at Ulquiorra, assessing his condition.

"I'm pretty sure he can't swallow." Grimmjow said bluntly. He pointed to a thin string of drool that fell from the corner of Ulquiorra's parted lips. "See? Drool means you can't swallow, I think. Plus, there's kind of a tube in his mouth."

It took every ounce of self control to not strangle Grimmjow. Obviously, Szayel didn't mean hydrating via mouth, he meant hydration intravenously. The cardiac monitor was still beeping fast, but for now, he was fairly stable, and the ventilator would keep him alive.

"You are correct Grimmjow," Szayel said very stiffly, "he cannot swallow at the moment. I was asking you if you'd like to help me start an IV."

"Oh! Yeah, I'm pretty good at growing plants." Grimmjow said, eager.

"No, _intravenous line_, as in the thing that is taped to the people's hands after operations." Szayel said forcefully, losing his patience. Grimmjow looked down at his own hand, where he remembered his IV was.

"Uhh…do I have to?" he asked a few seconds later. There was a panicky air about him suddenly.

"Yes." Szayel said firmly. He wheeled a small table over and two chairs for him and Grimmjow. Lumina brought an IV kit over to them. Szayel connected a flexible, plastic tube to a saline solution in a pouch, hanging it next to the blood pouch. He then squeezed a thicker part of the tube to the flow of saline water going.

"Now, this is very similar to what Ilforte did with the blood transfusion, but it is slightly less unpleasant to watch." Szayel explain. He plucked a cannula,18 gauge, the same Ilforte used, but this one had a red part. "Hand me the tourniquet,"

"Turni-kette? Is that a blood disease?"

"The blue, rubbery, ribbon-like thing." Szayel said with a sigh.

"Oh," Grimmjow handed to Szayel, but Szayel gave it back to him.

"Tie it about four inches above Ulquiorra's wrist. Tightly, of course." Grimmjow, lip bitten down in concentration, did as told. He was going to knot it, but thought better of it and left it as is. Meanwhile, Szayel was massaging the top of Ulquiorra's right hand with his fingers.

"Dude, he can't feel you. Massages aren't going to do anything." Grimmjow said blankly, giving Szayel an odd look. Szayel chuckled and shook his head, removing his hand and pointing.

"No, the 'massage' is to get the veins to stand out." Szayel tapped a blue vein that was beginning to pop out on Ulquiorra's hand. "And there's where we're going to insert the IV." Szayel wasted no time. Immediately, he slipped the needle into the vein at an almost parallel angle to Ulquiorra's hand. Grimmjow tensed up. He could see the needle under his skin, going farther into the vein, as Szayel guided it inside the vein with utmost care.

"Ah, got it!" Szayel said He popped the plastic part off, and a little blood dribbled out of the top of the cannula, where the red part was. Grimmjow cringed, but then Szayel solved the problem by hooking up the end part of the tube to the red part, twisting it tightly in place. "And voila. We're done here," the final touch, tape, was added.

Grimmjow was the color of the sheets, but he was okay. He nodded, gave a violent shudder, and groaned slightly.

"Freaking disgusting," Grimmjow shook his head.

"Look, his heart rate is slowing. Seventy-five BPM, though not normal, is healthier." He pointed to the green line zig-zagging on screen. "And the S wave is much deeper."

"Uh-huh," Grimmjow did what he knew would work to get Szayel off his back: smile and nod as if he actually understood. Indeed, he had no idea what as S wave was.

"So…am I done?"

"Almost," Szayel said cheerfully. "Oh, look, Ulquiorra's looking better."

Although Ulquiorra was still gray, there was a little more color to his cheeks. His body was not so limp anymore. Szayel turned off the ventilator, snapped it off the endotracheal tube, and picked out of Ulquiorra's mouth, tossing it on a table nearby. The ET glimmered with saliva under the strong light.

"So…we're done?" Grimmjow asked, scowling. He peeled the gloves off of his sweaty hands, and, like Szayel threw them into the trashcan. Too bad he missed the trash can. "Damn," he muttered.

"Yes. I'll watch him to make sure he's alright." Szayel said. He turned to Grimmjow, smiling graciously. He patted Grimmjow on the back. "Thank you. And hey, you didn't faint this time."

Grimmjow's face lit up slightly.

"Oh, yeah! And I saw a lot of blood and needles today." Grimmjow said with a nod. He felt pride running through his veins. He now didn't have to hate this place so much. His knees were locked, the temperature was stable, and he felt wonderful.

"Yes. I'm proud of you." Szayel chuckled and gently ushered Grimmjow out. "You go enjoy those Lucky Charms, okay? I'll see you soon."

And Grimmjow marched down the hallway, pride in his step as he left, for once, conscious from the lab.

-

-

Ulquiorra shifted in bed slightly. He was on the border of consciousness, and somewhere nearby, there was a constant beeping sound. He was relaxed, mesmerized by its sound. Ulquiorra wanted to be in this state forever and ever. Not a care, not a worry. He felt wonderful, like he was swimming in clouds.

"Oh, I see you're awake."

So much for relaxation.

Ulquiorra's green eyes fluttered open, and he found himself staring up at Szayel, who was smiling faintly down at him.

"If you look to your left hand, you'll see stitches." Ulquiorra flexed his left hand, but quickly stopped as the dark stitches tightened as he did so. It looked like a centipede on his palm and on his thumb.

"And to your right, the IV and blood transfusion."

Ulquiorra's eyes widened slightly when he saw the needlework, but he deemed it unspectacular.

"What happened?" Ulquiorra asked wearily.

"You cut yourself badly and suffered from hemorrhagic shock. You passed out and had to be attached to the ventilator. Not to mention, you needed a blood transfusion." Szayel explained shortly. The blood pouch was nearly empty.

Ulquiorra nodded groggily. He wanted to sleep, not talk. He felt more tired than usual.

"Not to mention, Grimmjow helped." Szayel said casually.

"And he didn't faint?" Ulquiorra questioned. He snorted and murmured, "What a surprise."

"He was outstanding today. I think he had some close calls, but he was very helpful." Szayel said with a sure nod. Ulquiorra rolled his eyes. He didn't care. Szayel seemed to take note of this. He patted Ulquiorra's arm.

"If you need me, I won't be far. Get some rest."

Szayel left the room, and Ulquiorra succumbed to sweet sleep once again.

* * *

Haha, I wrote this whole chapter today. The research was definitely fun. I'm sorry to have left you all hanging, I really am. But now that I'm back with my super special awesome Toshiba, I can update more and more. Thanks so much.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Ignorance is Bliss

* * *

Las Noches had been surprisingly quiet in the past month. The only people Szayel needed to treat was Ulquiorra, whose stitches were removed—and with great difficulty. He was not very good at cooperating. And Grimmjow, who had his cast cut off. He nearly fainted when his saw how skinny his arm was, not to mention the scar from the surgery, but he quickly recollected himself and left shortly after to go eat.

This meant Szayel had time for other activities, namely, Uranium Enrichment, sleep, and other experiments that involved the laws of physics. For that reason, Szayel had been in a noticeably better mood. A smile was stuck to his face and Szayel even made obscure science jokes ("So, the new biochemist was going to grow some bacteria for the first time. He was very agar to start. Get it? Agar, eager? Hahaha!"). But, of course, nobody even understood. Not that Szayel really cared; he found them hilarious. Along with that, he fooled around with Aaroniero's weather machine so that it was sunny, cloudy, or windy. Now that it was April, intermittent showers came as they pleased and the sun shone. Sometimes, cloud cover was thick. This meant Hueco Mundo was almost able to support vegetation…

Not much had happened in the past month. Halibel was now two months pregnant, which had proven to be a nightmare for her and Stark—morning sickness, moodiness, issues with strong scents, the usual pregnancy problems. Ulquiorra had vowed to avoid sharp objects. Nowadays, he cut everything with a fork. In fact, he had even tucked his zanpakutou under his pillow, only to be used for "emergencies". Not that he used it before. Ulquiorra was lazy. As for Grimmjow, he has officially become an exercise freak. When he saw his skinny, pale arm once the cast was gone, he decided to work his ass off to get it back to normal. Grimmjow had developed beastly abs and even acquired a tan from running around Las Noches outside. His biceps bulged, his triceps were firm, and his forearms rippled with muscle. His arm was gaining strength quickly as well, but he still had to be a little careful. Not that it deterred him any.

"Three minute mile. Bam. _Bam._" Grimmjow, took a long sip from his water bottle, wiping his sweating brow on the back of his hand. It reminded Ulquiorra of those old Gatorade commercials in which the actor sweat Gatorade, except this was water he drank and actual sweat, meaning he didn't look half as cool.

Ulquiorra sighed and shook his head.

"Congratulations." Ulquiorra dryly. He frowned as he saw his prisoner attempt a cartwheel and fall on her butt, laughing like a maniac. Ulquiorra rolled his eyes in disgust. Teenage human females were moodier than Halibel sometimes.

Nowadays, Aizen had forced them all to spend some time outside. Aizen, having returned from a two week long vacation in Miami, returned with blonde highlights (natural, he claimed), a wonderful tan, and a nice pair of D&G sunglasses. When he returned, he was shocked to see how pale and thin everyone was. "You look like Holocaust survivors," he had said. And then, he implemented a new rule: they had to go outside at least once a day, unless it was raining or any other impediments halted them from enjoying the outdoors.

"I hate the sun," Ulquiorra muttered.

"I hate Hueco Mundo." Stark joined them with a sullen sigh, glancing at Halibel and her fraccion. "I hate Aizen, too."

"You retards!" Grimmjow stomped over to them, catching his breath. He gestured wildly up to the sky. "How can you hate the sun? I can understand hating Aizen, he's a bastard, but the sun? Feel the wonderful rays of heat!"

"That's the exact problem," Ulquiorra said rather pointedly. "It's making me sweat. I don't like sweating."

"The sun? Meh. I don't really care, actually." Stark said with a shrug. "My problem is Halibel over there."

Grimmjow looked over Stark's shoulder at Halibel, who was about forty yards away. She was sitting on a blanket while Apache fed her grapes like the devoted slave she was. He then shifted his gaze to Stark, who was wan, with dark circles under his eyes. Stark's eyes, a pale shade of blue-green, were glazed over. He yawned widely.

"It must suck." Grimmjow agreed.

"It does. She wakes up in the middle of the night and tells me to go get her ice cream. _Ice cream is not yummy at two thirty in the morning_." Stark said, running a hand through his hair furiously.

"Ice cream is great any time, duh." Grimmjow said, smirking.

"Ice cream tastes like calories, fat, and heart problems." Ulquiorra said under his breath. When he caught sight of Orihime running around in circles, he added, "What is she doing?" Stark and Grimmjow looked at Orihime, who was doing somersaults and falling on her butt and in the sand. Stark raised an eyebrow and Grimmjow grunted, shrugging. He suddenly started to cough.

"Are you okay?" Stark asked, turning to Grimmjow. Grimmjow was breathing hard and he was doubled over.

"Hells to the yeah!" Grimmjow pumped a fist in the air, ignoring his shortness of breath. "I'm fine. In fact, I'm going to run another fucking mile."

"Oh, no, you're not!"

Apache stomped over to Grimmjow, pouting like usual. She planted herself in front of him, looking up into his face. She was going to get a crick in her neck from doing that, as she was quite short.

"Fuck yes I am." Grimmjow scoffed.

"You want to race me?" Apache smiled deviously, rolling up her sleeves. Grimmjow's eyebrows shot up. An amused, devilish look came over his face.

"Well, you know, you're going to lose to my Freaking Flaming Feet of Forceful Fire." Grimmjow smirked.

"That's redundant, retard." Apache said with a snide laugh. "I'm going to own you. Ready…Set…GO!"

Like bats out of hell, the two took off in a mad dash somewhere. Ulquiorra and Stark looked at each other, sighed, and didn't even bother to voice their thoughts.

-

"That was a good run." Grimmjow said, panting. He turned to Apache , grinning. "You're pretty fast for a midget."

"I know, right?" Apache said, taking a swig of her water bottle. Her blue eyes twinkled and a mischievous, pleased grin was on her boyish face. Apache was wearing black Nike running shorts and a red T-shirt that read "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID". Her short black hair was in a cruddy topknot on her head. "I'm a total beast." She said.

Grimmjow nodded in agreement, wiping his sweating brow. Apache was pretty cool.

"Yeah. I still beat you, but hey. It's all good. You were friggin' close!" Grimmjow remarked. "Well. Should we go inside?"

"Let's warm down." Apache said congenially.

"Nah." Grimmjow waved a hand, smirking. "I have to catch 24."

A dark look passed over Apache's face. She stomped her foot and lunged at him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along.

"Dammit, you're warming down with me!" Apache said in a shrill voice. "Jack Bauer can go die in a hole! And Chuck Norris owns him any day!"

"What the hell? I want to watch my TV! Also, Chuck Norris sucks." Grimmjow said gruffly.

"Warm down with me!" Apache said forcefully, dragging him behind her. For a midget, she was strong. Grimmjow found himself digging his heels into the ground to prevent himself from being forced into an unneeded warm down. He tried to undo her grip around his wrist, but found he couldn't. Grimmjow had no choice but to succumb to her ideas.

Meanwhile, Mira Rose and Sun Sun were catching sun outside, several yards away from them. Mira Rose looked over the rims of her sunglasses and nudged Sun Sun.

"Hey, check it. Looks like Apache's got a crush!" Mira Rose waggled her eyebrows at her fellow fraccion who rolled her eyes and buried her face in a magazine.

-

The kitchen seemed to be a meeting place for the Espada. At any given time of the day, there would be at least one Espada in there—usually. That early afternoon, Noitora sat at the table, flipping through a car magazine and munching on some BBQ chips while Halibel sat a few feet away from him, eating a bowl of fruit rather aggressively. Stark was sitting next to her, frowning. Ulquiorra was at his post by the kitchen island. Contemplating the choices of lunch he had, his chin was in hand and his emerald gaze was fixed on the clock mounted above the doors the led into the main hallway. All was relatively quiet. Stark broke the silence rather casually.

"My knee hurts." He observed.

"Is that why you've been walking funny?" Halibel asked, setting her fork down. Stark had been walking around with an awkward gait. His left knee was bent and he walked around on the ball of his foot while his unaffected leg walked normally. It wasn't easy to notice, due to the long, loose hakama.

"I guess. It hurts when I walk and my knee randomly gives out under me." Stark said. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "What a pain."

"Literally." Noitora quipped. "Take some pain meds."

Stark shrugged. "They don't work too well."

"Get some narcotics from Szayel." Noitora said flippantly. He snorted. "I bet that fuck-up is loaded with those."

"Uhh, no." Stark said quickly, shaking his head. "I hate doctors. I've seen way too much in that lab over the past few months."

Ulquiorra decided to listen in. It was better than suffering from internal angst due to inability to decide on what to eat. He leaned forward slightly.

"I haven't had a problem with it." Halibel said calmly. "It's not disgusting."

Stark shuddered in repulsion.

"It is."

"How long has your knee been hurting?" Ulquiorra asked, in a rare moment of extroversion. Everyone jumped slightly and looked at him, unnerved.

"Whoa. I didn't even know you were in the room." Stark said under his breath. Ulquiorra scowled at him, offended. "It's been hurting for about…two months. It's just getting worse."

"I see."

"I think you should go to Szayel." Halibel said, pointing at Stark with a fork. She looked serious. Very serious. And also close to mood-swinging everyone out of the kitchen, since she seemed to have that power. Stark's lip curled and he shook his head.

"I think not!" he said faintly. "Really, I don't want to get involved. Nothing's wrong with me."

"Stop being so damn macho and get Szayel to take a look." Halibel slammed her hand down on the table.

"Hey, don't lash out at me like that." Stark said calmly, defensively. He stared at her evenly. "It'll be fine. If it gets worse, I'll go get it checked out."

"Fine." Halibel ate in silence.

Ulquiorra didn't have much of an opinion. He was wasn't too keen on doctors, and though he didn't mind blood or gore, he preferred it to be accompanied with screams of pain and victory. Not under the bright lights of the operating room, not with the cardiac monitor beeping so rhythmically.

"Hey, I just realized something—Grimmjow's not in here." Noitora said, closing his magazine.

"Obviously." Stark said. "Last time I saw him he was with Apache."

"I thought they hated each other." Ulquiorra said candidly.

"No. They're both control freaks, that's all." Stark said with a shrug. Halibel nodded in agreement. "They're ridiculously competitive."

Everyone tensed up when Szayel moseyed into the kitchen. He flashed them all a smile while Stark quickly tried to act natural. Szayel seemed to be in a good mood. His lab coat was clean, unwrinkled. He looked rested and collected. After fishing some leftovers out of the fridge and putting them in the microwave, he turned to all of them.

"Hello, everyone. How are you?" Szayel greeted.

"I'm fine, but Stark sure isn't." Halibel said scathingly.

Noitora gathered his food and darted out of the kitchen. He was a little afraid of Szayel, and he was not even going to pretend he wasn't. Nobody really noticed.

As for Ulquiorra, he didn't even bother replying to Szayel's question.

Szayel studied Stark, looking at him from head to toe. The smile had fallen off his face as he surveyed him very carefully. Szayel noted the dark circles under his eyes and the wan complexion, along with the lack of shine in his eyes. He did look sick, but Szayel had a feeling that was not the case. Otherwise, Stark would've been in bed. Szayel was sure of that.

"Are you feeling okay?" Szayel asked in a rather cool manner.

"Yeah, of course." Stark replied quickly. "I'm fine. Don't listen to them."

"His knee hurts." Halibel put in. "It has for two months."

"Halibel—" Stark's urgent tone of voice definitely pointed to the obvious—Stark was not 'fine'. He was just pretending to be.

"And also it was really swollen two months ago." Halibel continued. "I saw it with my own two—"

"Halibel, I'm _fine_!" Stark said emphatically. He rose from his chair.

Szayel snickered in amusement. Though he didn't want to admit it, he found Lovers' spats to be so funny. The wife usually won, he noticed, and that was the case. Halibel was challenging Stark to walk. And Szayel caught the dreading expression that passed over Stark's face.

"Alright, geez. Be that way." Stark said sullenly, sinking back into the chair. "Nope. Can't walk normally." He shot Halibel a nasty glare. And Halibel, in return, smirked smugly.

"Oh, really?" Szayel rounded the island and studied him more.

"Yeah." Stark replied petulantly. He folded his arms.

"Do you remember what happened when the pain started?" Szayel asked.

"I was on a mission in Chile. Remember that? Yeah. Well, I was on the side of a mountain, scouting for something when I took a step. I didn't watch where I was going, so my left leg kind of fell in a hole—I stepped strangely. And then the pain started."

"Hm. Did you hear a pop?" Szayel asked. He was onto something. Ulquiorra could almost see his brain narrowing the list of possible maladies.

"Yes. It was loud. I fell to the ground right after that." Stark said with a nod. He grimaced, remembering the incident.

"Okay." Szayel nodded. "Sounds like a ligament." Szayel sighed deeply, and the steely look in his eye returned. He adjusted his glasses habitually. "I suppose I can examine you, but this is putting off my uranium enrichment program along with my gravity testing…well, to the lab, then. Come with me, Stark."

Stark followed Szayel down the hall to the lab while Szayel watched him walk. He didn't say anything, and analyzed Stark's painful gait. He held the door open for the glum-faced Stark and closed it behind him, only to look up and find, in shock, that the foyer of his lab had two people in it.

Grimmjow, grinning in genuine amusement, was sitting next to Apache on one of the white couches. Apache, however, had a towel pressed to her head and was smiling sheepishly.

"What happened?" Szayel asked, walking briskly to them.

"Funny story, actually." Grimmjow snorted. "Apache and I were watching 24 in my room, and then we decided to be ninjas so we started doing flips and jumping on my bed. But Apache is retarded at doing flips, so she screwed up and hit her head on the corner of my bedside table."

Szayel stared them with a "Seriously?" look on his face for a long time before beckoning them over to his side.

"Well, that makes two patients to examine." Szayel said under his breath. But then, another thought came to mind—Grimmjow was…unfainted. He was conscious. How was this possible? Apache was bleeding from what Szayel assumed was a large head wound. Yet Grimmjow was still on his feet, with a healthy pallor on his fierce countenance. Szayel shrugged it off, and led the idiot parade to the exam rooms. He left Stark in one and took the other two to the room right across the hallway. Szayel patted the examination table, and Apacci sat up there.

"Well, let's take a look." Szayel pulled on some latex gloves and removed the towel from Apacci's forehead. At once, a stream of fresh blood poured from a wound just above her right eyebrow. Szayel pressed gauze to the wound and watched Grimmjow with a slight smirk as Grimmjow lost coloring to his face.

"You can sit down, Grimmjow." Szayel said.

Grimmjow nodded jerkily and chose to sit on the counter, holding his face in his hands.

"Ugh. That is so gross!" Grimmjow muttered.

"Wow, you're a sissy!" Apache said with a laugh. She lay down on the examination table. Szayel gently pushed her down into a lying position.

"Shut up, Apache!" Grimmjow moaned. "You're just a man!"

"Blood isn't that bad—ow!"

"Hold still, please." Szayel tossed the used lidocaine injection into the sharps box. Apache's wound was a jagged line, fairly wide, but only about an inch and a half long. Szayel grasped the needle holder in his right hand and assessed the wound, deciding on what kind of stitch to use. The needle holder was reminiscent of hemostats or scissors, but there was a grove in it that was for the needle. Because of its location on her head, he figured a simple stitch would work. He poked the needle under her skin and deftly popped it out on the other side. He pulled it tight, and tied it with his left hand and the needle holder, snipping it with scissors.

"How are you feeling, Apache?" Szayel asked, dabbing some blood away with gauze. It was important to make sure she hadn't lost too much blood.

"Hungry." Apache replied candidly. "Do you have food?"

Szayel smiled. Apache really was as tomboyish as everyone said she was. It was a relief, since the majority of Las Noches' girls were bitchy, whiny, or finicky. Apache was bitchy, yes, and she had a rep of being just as rude as Grimmjow. But she wasn't squeamish, nor did she wince at the word 'blood'. That was definitely a relief to Szayel.

"No nausea or dizziness?"

"Nope. I think you should ask Grimmjow that. That pussy…cat over looks like he's going to be sick."

Szayel found Grimmjow attempting to watch the procedure, but evidently not doing too well. His eyes were closed and he looked like he was in pain. But that was probably his stomach clenching and the room spinning around him. And the foreboding feeling of breakfast rising.

"Grimmjow…seriously. You didn't fine with the blood transfusion from Ulquiorra's incident. Why can't you handle this?" Szayel asked, looking at him over his shoulder.

"Yeah, in case you haven't noticed, her blood is kind of spewing out of the wound." He said emphatically. "Plus, it's not in a plastic bag. It's gushing out like Gushers™ when you poke them with a fork."

"Because most people really eat Gushers with forks," Apache put in sarcastically. "You're so messed up, Grimmjow."

"Oh yeah? Your mom!" Grimmjow retorted. Apache pointed and laughed at him, prompting Szayel to remind her to stay still.

"Actually, a colloid cyst is the closest thing to a Gusher." Szayel decided to interrupt the camaraderie and chuckled at his reference. "If you pop it, goo comes out. They're fun to remove. But I think you're thinking of a ruptured artery, and this is not the case. Just don't throw up!"

"Workin'on it." Grimmjow riposted.

Within fifteen minutes, Apache's wound was sealed up by a total of six stitches, and covered with gauze. She sat up energetically once Szayel deemed her okay.

"Now, I want you to avoid strenuous activities—rest. No playing ninjas or flips." Szayel said reprovingly.

Apache nodded distractedly, grinning wickedly at Grimmjow, who was leaning against the doorframe, pale and clammy. He smiled weakly at Apache.

"I'm fine. Just fine." Grimmjow murmured.

"Yeah, right." She said with a roll of her eyes. Apache hopped off the operating table and trudged over to him. She reached up on tiptoe, arm fully extended and placed a hand on his forehead. She drew back and wiped her hand on her hakama.

"You're sweating. You sure you okay?" Apache asked suspiciously, peering at Grimmjow. She really was a midget—Apache didn't even hit Grimmjow's shoulder, and she could probably stand under his arm comfortably if he extended it out to his side. Szayel found this cute in an odd sort of way that brought out her 'fun-sized' height.

"Yeah." Grimmjow replied with a casual wave of his hand. "Stop worrying."

"Oh. Whatever." Apache frowned a little. "Last one to the kitchen is a rotten egg—"

"I don't think so," Szayel said in dissent, blocking their exit. "No running for either of you. Apache, come back in four days. I'll need to check those stitches. Go watch TV or something. Without getting your heart rate up."

Grimmjow and Apache exchanged glances. It was a Kodak moment, almost, or maybe something cliche from a TV show, in the sense that one of them was about to yell "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?!".

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Apache said mischievously. She rubbed her hands together.

"The Office?" Grimmjow said eagerly.

"Hell yes, motherfucker!" Apache yelled, body slamming Grimmjow. But, instead, Grimmjow crushed her in a bear hug. Her feet dangled above the ground and her face was squished into his chest while Grimmjow laughed heartily.

"Shit son, I am good!" Grimmjow growled.

Szayel watched from a safe distance, smiling placidly. There was something about the two…Szayel watched as they took off. And now, he had to deal with his other patient.

Stark had a devious air around him, and he watched with raised eyebrows as Grimmjow and Apache ran off somewhere.

"This could get interesting." Stark remarked tacitly.

"Indeed. Well, let's start the examination. Left knee, right? Haha, get it? Left, right? I digress. Roll up the pant leg of your hakama to mid thigh and then I'll do the Lachman test."

Stark warily rolled up the leg of his hakama.

"Will this hurt?"

"No. Lie flat. Relax your entire leg."

Szayel flexed Stark's knee to about thirty degrees. With his left hand, he grasped Stark's femur, and his right hand had his tibia in a tight grip. He pulled the tibia up firmly, displacing it from the femur, and Szayel immediately noticed something was wrong. The tibia was way out of its range—the amount of anterior displacement was a sure indication of an ACL tear.

"Stark, are you flexible?" Szayel asked, setting his leg down.

"No…"

"So, let me get this straight." Szayel adjusted his glasses. "You can't walk without pain and your knee gives out under you. And you heard a pop at the time of the injury. Halibel also mentioned some swelling. Care to elaborate on the swelling?"

"Sure. It was really swollen. Almost grapefruit size. Then it wore off after a few weeks." Stark replied bluntly.

Szayel hummed and nodded. He wouldn't even need an MRI to diagnose this one.

"It's an ACL tear." Szayel said gravely. What he got from Stark was a blank look.

"Care to elaborate?" Stark asked primly, mocking Szayel.

"The anterior cruciate ligament is one of the four ligaments of the knee joint—LCL, MCL, PCL, and ACL. A ligament connects bone to bone. The ACL, and also the PCL, which crosses behind the ACL, functions to hold the tibia and femur together and restrains too much forward motion of the tibia. It also maintains the stability of the knee joint. Once torn or completely ruptured, the ACL cannot heal itself, like the LCL or MCL due to lack of blood flow. Therefore, an ACL reconstruction surgery will be necessary for you." Szayel paused to let Stark process the information. Stark's expression went from fear to shock, and finally to reluctant acceptance.

"Damn it." Stark muttered.

"To reconstruct the ACL, a new ligament will be grafted using an allograft, the patellar tendon, or the hamstring tendon. In your case, I will use an allograft. After the surgery, you will start a rigorous rehab program that will three or more months, depending on how well and diligent you do the exercises. Expect to be on crutches for up the three weeks."

"Let me guess—now you're going to tell me that my knee is going to grow a head, right?" Stark said bitterly.

"No. The surgery lasts up to two hours. During the surgery—"

"I'd rather not hear the details, thanks." Stark said curtly, glaring at Szayel. He folded his arms and huffed.

"That's understandable." Szayel said agreeably. He smiled apologetically at Stark who just shook his head. Szayel could tell that he was really pissed with his predicament.

"And I'm guessing there's no other way to fix it?" Stark threw the question out hopefully. But he already knew the answer.

"Ah, no. The surgery is basically the only way, especially judging by the severity of your tear that was demonstrated in the Lachman Test. Your tibia was seriously displaced. If it were a very small tear, a little rehab would do fine. But your tear is not small. In fact, you might've ruptured the whole thing."

"What about an MRI?"

"It is unnecessary, in the sense that we already know your ACL is torn or ruptured. The MRI would only show the exact tear or rupture." Szayel explained briefly.

"Ugh. Great." Stark said.

"In that case, the surgery is set for the thirtieth of April at 7 in the morning—ten days from now. In that time, just relax. Walk as little as possible." Szayel advised. "That's about all I have to tell you. Any questions?"

"Yeah, why is the surgery so early?" Stark snapped.

"Because we'll be able to observe you easier and so your circadian rhythm doesn't get messed up." Szayel scowled "And it's so much more practical."

"Fine." Stark sighed and stood up off the table. He and Szayel shook hands, though there was animosity on Stark's side. Szayel pretended not to notice—after all, it was understandable. ACL surgery was a _big_ deal. Stark left the lab with an air of hostility around him.

-

"So, what'd he say?" Grimmjow asked.

The kitchen was lively with most of the Espada enjoying Hibachi. The kitchen was aromatic, the food piled high, and the lighting sultry and inviting. The food was hot and simmering on the ceramic plates. At the table, Halibel, Noitora, Grimmjow, Apache, Yami, Ulquiorra, and Stark were sitting peacefully. Szayel would've them, but he was 'busy', so they just left it at that and didn't question. Stark set his fork down on his plate and swallowed.

"Apparently, I've messed up my ACL really badly." Stark muttered.

"What the hell's an ACL?" Grimmjow asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Some weird ass ligament that crosses inside the knee that happens to cross over another weird ass ligament." Stark said flippantly.

Grimmjow snorted.

"I don't even know what a ligament is, but whatever."

Ulquiorra, at the end of the table, rolled his eyes at Grimmjow's ignorance. He was the incarnation, of the expression 'Ignorance is bliss'. Grimmjow didn't care that he didn't know anything. And he probably planned to keep it that way.

"When will the surgery be?" Ulquiorra asked.

"The thirtieth at seven in the morning." Stark replied with a frown. "Ten days to live in normalcy."

"Spend them well." Noitora said in a brief state of wisdom. Everyone knew that was more rare than catching Aizen doing something straight.

Stark gave a heavy sigh, and leaned back into his seat. He suddenly lost his appetite. He didn't want to eat the food, even it was Yami's specialty. He was just there, feeling angsty and wanting to get it over with. Already, he was making a mental list of things he liked to do, so that the time could fly.

And that was why, ten days later, he stood in the foyer of the laboratory at six forty five, greeted by an excited, energetic Szayel. Dressed in emerald green scrubs.

* * *

So, it's a cliffhanger because I don't want a case of writer's block to attack me and make you guys wait. I'm doing it for my fans. This chapter sucked, but the next one will be important and good. Trust me. ACL surgeries are REALLY fun to watch. ;)

Also, Apache x Grimm is such a cute pairing! But that's beside the point.

I hope you liked this chapter. Please review.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Drills Don't Always Kill

I should be studying for finals, but this HAD to be finished. ;) Please review.

* * *

Stark didn't know what he was doing, or why he was there so early. Perhaps it was because it was _too _early for him to function. And he was tired. He had lost hours of precious sleep the past ten days, fretting about his surgery. Not to mention Noitora whispering things in his ear; "You knee will fall off and it turn itself inside out!" along with many other things that managed to keep him up well after midnight.

Behind Szayel stood Ulquiorra, Grimmjow, and even Apache. Grimmjow and Apache were surreptitiously kicking each other's butts, giggling at some inside joke, leaving Ulquiorra as the awkward one standing a few feet away, glaring at them. Stark snickered. They all looked so out of place dressed in the same green scrubs Szayel was dressed in.

"Good morning." Szayel greeted, beckoning Stark over.

"Hi…" Stark replied tentatively. He was not keen on doctors. In fact, he hated them, and now more than ever. Stark had a nice luck of avoiding injury or illness, unlike several others, but it wouldn't protect him forever.

"Bet you're scared, huh?" Grimmjow nudged Stark in the ribs rather brusquely as they made their way down the hall.

"Of course." Stark replied with a shrug. "This isn't my idea of fun, nor is it convenient since my wife is pregnant."

"Eh. You'll live." Grimmjow said glibly.

And that was the end of that. Stark frowned. Since when did Grimmjow have that attitude about surgery? As far as he knew, Grimmjow had issues with anything that involved medicine, and with good reason. But then, Stark remembered Grimmjow and Apache from ten days ago, and understood. Grimmjow was just trying to act brave, he surmised, for Apache. Stark couldn't wait until Grimmjow fainted out of sheer terror upon watching the first incision. But then he realized he wouldn't be awake to see that. Damn.

Stark was led to a room that was curtained off with a small bed, which he was commanded to sit down on. Szayel handed a manila folder off to Ilforte, his brother, who accepted it and skimmed through it.

"Torn ACL, huh?" Ilforte questioned.

"Yeah."

"Ouch. Not allergic to anything?"

"Not that I know of." Stark replied.

"Any health problems we should know of?" Ilforte asked, glancing at Stark.

"He feels asleep a lot." Grimmjow put in snidely.

Ilforte turned to Stark, raising an eyebrow. His pen was poised above the paper.

"Narcolepsy?" Ilforte suggested.

"No. Just having a pregnant wife." Stark said. He threw Grimmjow a glare. Grimmjow smirked back.

Ilforte shrugged and marked a few things on the paper, setting it down at the foot of his bed.

"Well, any questions?"

"Am I going to puke Lucky Charms for three days straight like Grimmjow did?" Stark asked. It was an insincere question, but he just wanted to get a kick out of Grimmjow flushing pink with anger and embarrassment. And also as revenge for Grimmjow's idiotic comment. Apache smirked at him and Ulquiorra looked as amused as his stony face could handle.

"Not going to lie, that was hilarious." Apache murmured.

"Shut up." Grimmjow muttered. He looked down at the floor.

Ilforte thought over his answer, running a hand through his hair. He smirked."Well, not if you eat _before the surgery like Grimmjow did_," Ilforte said pointedly. "Yes, we found out about that. And no, you won't, as long as you follow the rules _unlike _Grimmjow."

"I haven't eaten since yesterday, not to worry." Stark said with a dry laugh. "Haven't had much of an appetite. And I think we all know why."

"Good." The obscure implication that surgery was gross went right over Ilforte's head.

Ilforte drifted over to the monitor next to the bed, and pulled out a navy blue blood pressure cuff from the basket.

"Oh…take your jacket off." Ilforte said. Stark did as told, tossing it beside him. Ilforte wrapped the cuff around his upper arm, and inflated it, slipping the stethoscope under there. He made a face, and removed it just numbers popped up on screen.

"One thirty over ninety two." Ilforte announced. "Relax—you're quite anxious. It's not a big deal." Ilforte crept closer to Stark, slipping the stethoscope under his shirt.

"Whatever—ah! That's cold!" Stark pushed Ilforte away, pointing at the stethoscope. Ilforte made a face and went for a second attempt.

"Hold still!" Ilforte hissed. "And you two, shut up!" the last command was aimed at Apache and Grimmjow, who were enjoying an inside joke with much gusto.

"But it's cold." Stark said gruffly.

"Be quiet. Let me listen." Ilforte hissed.

He had a strong heart—the ventricles contracted with a satisfying, deep _thump._ Ilforte could tell that his heartbeat was otherwise slow and steady, but since he was nervous, it was beating quickly—and the reason was fairly understandable. Ilforte retreated, and Stark made a move to put his coat back on.

"Leave it off. You have an undershirt, anyway." Ilforte said. "That'll make my life so much easier when I start your IV."

From his pocket, he produced a thermometer that was jammed in Stark's mouth. With a two second readout, it was out as fast as it was in.

"Ninety four point eight. Well, Arrancar have low body temperatures as it is…" Ilforte muttered. Next, Ilforte groped for something in the pocket of his scrubs and turned to the bystanders. But, thinking better of it, he tucked the syringe back in his pocket. He pointed to Apache and Grimmjow.

"You two are going to help me start the IV." He told them, nodding. "I'll be back in a bit."

As soon as Ilforte was out of earshot, Apache and Grimmjow erupted into fitful laughter. Ulquiorra rolled his eyes and drifted over to Stark, unobtrusively asking for conversation. Stark thought Ulquiorra looked funny in scrubs. They matched with his eyes, but the scrubs looked empty—he was too thin to fill the loose fabric. Grimmjow filled the scrubs out nicely—the sleeves were a little tight on his muscles.

"The pink stuff is the sedative. It tastes horrible." Ulquiorra explained briefly.

"Thanks for the tip." Stark accommodated himself on the bed, leaning into the plushy pillow. He really, really didn't want to do this.

Ilforte returned, tearing open an IV kit and setting down on the table nearby. He beckoned Grimmjow and Apache over.

"See that needle?" Ilforte hung a bag of saline water on a hook nearby, twisting a thin plastic tube to it.

"Uh…that thing?" Apache pointed to the cannula, 18 g and quite intimidating as it was thick and pointed with a red cap. Stark's eyes went wide and he frantically glanced at Ilforte, hoping he wouldn't nod or say yes.

"Yes, that. Don't touch it. Apache, see that blue ribbon like thing? Tie it about three inches above Stark's wrist. _Do not knot it_."

Apache pulled the tourniquet from the kit, tying it three inches above Stark's left wrist. Stark already felt his blood flow being halted a little, and his hand was turning pink just after thirty seconds. It also felt a little cold. Stark's gaze flickered to Ilforte who, watched the vein on his hand until it was blue and prominent, pressing against his light skin.

"Ah, there it is. See that vein?" Ilforte pointed to the blue vein on Stark's hand. Grimmjow and Apache nodded.

"Now comes the fun part." Ilforte threw Grimmjow a pair of gloves and pulled his own on. He tore a packet of something else open and pulled out a small pad soaked in alcohol, which he slathered all over the top of Stark's hand.

"Cannula." Ilforte held his hand open, and Apache deposited the cannula, watching eagerly. Grimmjow was already looking a little white. He inserted the cannula at an awkward angle, almost parallel to Stark's hand. A little prick was all he felt, and he watched, slightly horrified, as it filled with blood. Ilforte continued to guide it inside the vein until the needle was fully in. Stark's blood dribbled from the opening of the cannula. Grimmjow blenched, taking a step back, while Apache leaned closer.

Ilforte reached for the tube connected to the saline bag, popped off the cannula's plastic cap, and inserted it in the cannula's opening, twisting it in quickly.

"And there you have it." Ilforte said. "I was going to make Grimmjow do it, but he looked a little pale so I decided against it." Ilforte flipped the stopcock on the tube and let the solution flow. Finally, he taped the cannula to Stark's hand.

"That was awesome." Apache said, pumping a fist into the air. Ilforte handed a small vial of pink stuff to her, which she accepted with a curious look on her face.

"Give that to Stark by mouth in five minutes. I have to help Szayel set up the OR. Back in ten."

The room was relatively quiet. Stark was twiddling with his thumbs and looking around himself anxiously. Ulquiorra was sitting in one of the chairs arms folded against his chest. Grimmjow and Apache were impersonating Szayel.

"Oh, shit! Five minutes!" Apache snapped back to her normal personality. "But I have to pee. You give it to him, Grimmjow." She handed him the syringe and toddled off to a bathroom, leaving Grimmjow confused, staring after her.

"Okay." He crept closer to Stark, unsure of himself. Stark glared at him warily. "Swallow it." Grimmjow poked Stark's lip with the syringe, and Stark gave in, puckering up. Grimmjow pressed the plunger, watching as Stark savored the liquid. It tasted fruity. And then, Grimmjow pulled the syringe out.

Stark went into a fit of coughing, pounded his chest and fanned his burning tongue. His eyes watered.

"Dammit! That stuff is horrible!" He hadn't taken Ulquiorra's warning to heart. Stark looked around the room for something to get rid of the taste—water, food, anything. But then remembered he was forbidden to eat or drink.

Stark leaned back into the bed as the aftertaste wore off. And he was surprised to find his thoughts were drifting, their frivolity increasing. He was getting sleepy. Stark let his eyes fall closed for a few minutes, and when he opened them again, he found himself wincing under the bright light of the operating room. Standing over him, there were four people, all with white masks on their faces, clad in long green gowns and caps. Szayel was smiling at him—his eyes were crinkled pleasantly. Apache looked excited—her blue eyes were twinkling. Grimmjow, next to her, was looking brave, and Ulquiorra, tense.

"Hey, sleeping beauty." Grimmjow greeted gruffly.

"Hi." Stark replied, rubbing his eyes.

"We're about to start the anesthesia." Szayel patted his shoulder.

"Do I have any last words?" Stark asked darkly.

"Haha, very funny." Ilforte's face joined the other four, frowning at him. "I can certainly make it that way, bro."

"Ilforte, please." Szayel said in exasperation.

"Okay, okay. Count backward from ten, starting now." Ilforte said.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven. Six…five…" Stark paused. He was losing his grip on consciousness, and he found he couldn't fight it. The voices were becoming incoherent and blending together, fading out, while the room darkened and blurred around him. He found he couldn't move, nor did he want to. He let his eyes fall closed, making a promise to himself to wake up. And that was it. Stark was out.

-

-

"Whoa. That was freaky." Grimmjow shuddered. He was referring to Stark's eerie loss of conscious. Stark just went limp, and a placid expression came over his previously tense countenance.

Meanwhile, Szayel and Ilforte were sticking electrodes to Stark's chest and turning on the cardiac monitor. Ulquiorra was clipping the pulse ox to Stark's index finger on his right hand. Apacci was staring in awe at the shiny instruments laid out on a table, glinting under the bright lights. She had her eyes set on a particularly long drill that she presumed would be used in association with some screws. Apache also liked the endoscope that would be used for the arthroscopy. They looked like torture devices; thus, they had her favor immediately. What she also found cool was surveying Ilforte as he intubated Stark. That was also the same thing that made Grimmjow shudder just thinking about it.

Grimmjow didn't even want to look. In reality, he didn't want to be there in the first place. He could see the metal instruments out of the corner of his eye, so he decidedly to aloofly observe Lumina and Verona who were placing Stark's upper leg in a sort of rubber clasp. It was then he realized it was a tourniquet—and massive one at that. Following that, his leg was placed in a leg holder, and dangled off the edge of the operating table.

Szayel adjusted the lamp and called everyone over to his side.

"Alright, let's start this reconstruction!" he said a little too excitedly. With a pen, Szayel marked three places around Stark's knee. The first was a few inches above the kneecap, and the last two were on either side of the bottom part of his knee cap.

"These are called portals. Through them, cannulae will be inserted for fluids and the endoscope." Szayel briefly explained. It was then they noticed he held a scalpel in his right hand. But nobody expected Ulquiorra to be the designated wielder.

"What I want you to do is make a small, deep incision, just along the line." Szayel said airily. "It's very simple. You can't mess up."

"Szayel…I really don't think I should be doing this." Ulquiorra said tentatively.

"And why is that?" Szayel inquired.

"I cut myself last time I dealt with a knife." Ulquiorra said blankly. "I needed a blood transfusion and stitches."

Szayel shrugged, and gesticulated to the markings.

"Ulquiorra, you can't go wrong with that."

"That what's I thought as I tried to prepare my lunch…" Ulquiorra muttered glumly.

"Make the incisions deep. Besides, I can correct them easily." Szayel said with a wave of his hand. Ulquiorra made an attempt to reply, but Szayel cut him off. Thus, Ulquiorra had no choice but to make the incision. He didn't really know how to approach it. Although the line was marked, straight and small, how would we know how much pressure to apply? Ulquiorra was being over analytical—like usual.

"Just do it, man." Grimmjow said impatiently.

"Do you want to do it, then?" Ulquiorra said sharply, holding the small scalpel out to Grimmjow. Grimmjow took a step back and held his hands out in front of him.

"Hell no. No. _No. _Never." Grimmjow quickly muttered.

Ulquiorra started the incision. It was then that the sickening realization that skin was tougher than he thought came to him. His stomach tightened as he pressed down and drew the scalpel across, following the marked line with intense precision. A small stream of bright red blood dribbled down the side of Stark's leg. To make sure he did everything right, he glanced at Szayel, who, to Ulquiorra's dismay, was not even paying attention—he was messing with some drill on the instrument table. Mildly perturbed both by the blood and lack of supervision, Ulquiorra made the next notch, finishing with the incision near the top of his knee.

"Oh, good." Szayel prodded the portals with the tip of his finger. "Good, good." He grabbed a rather thick, tube like instrument from the table, hooked it up to some other machine, and them jammed it into the portal just above Stark's kneecap. He wrenched it in there, moving it around to the point where they could see Stark's kneecap moving around. Grimmjow groaned and closed his eyes. It was not a pleasant sight. He cracked an eye open to see Szayel holding a large silver cannula in hand, with a few short extensions on it.

"Don't tell me that's going to go in that hole." Grimmjow said under his breath.

"Oh, this?" Szayel pointed to the cannula. "But of course. That one's next." Apache was holding another silver instrument, and judging by the hook-like curve at the end, it would be used to pull out the torn ACL. Grimmjow turned his back just as Szayel jammed it in the portal. But he could hear Apaches "oohs and ahhs" along with a snide remark from Ulquiorra that made him shudder. Damn doctors.

"You can look now, Grimmjow." Szayel said with a chuckle.

"You're just messing with me. I bet you've got eighty thousand tubes in his knee, complete with knives and lasers..."

Szayel rolled his eyes at the tacky exaggeration. Really, Grimmjow? _Really_? Szayel was done with jamming things in the knee. Well, sort of. He'd have to get the ACL out—or, Apache would.

"No, just three." Szayel said smoothly. "I promise."

"Is that a legit promise or a I'm-a-fucking-doctor-therefore-I'm-lying promise?"

"Don't _even_ go there." Szayel said sharply.

Grimmjow turned around, looked at the knee, twitched, and then looked up at a small screen. He scowled and tipped his head to the side in confusion. What was on screen looked like a fat, light pink anemone between two smooth, white structures, swaying softly as there was fluid inside the knee.

"Whoa. What is that?" Grimmjow asked in total awe. It didn't even look like something that belonged inside the body—it was too clean, much too innocuous.

"The remains of the ACL is the pink thing. The white thing on the left is his tibia and on the right, the femur." Szayel explained. "Fascinating, isn't it?"

"No, just freaking cool." Grimmjow said.

"While I prep the graft, I'm going to need someone to pull out the ACL. Any volunteers?"

"Me!" Apache was at Szayel's side in a flash. She awaited his orders eagerly.

"Well, take this thing—the grasper—and fish out the ACL. If you can't get all of it, don't worry. Watch the screen." Szayel said. "The point is to get the new graft in there." With that, he moseyed over to another table a few yards away where he was bent over a small, white structure, about ten centimeters long. It was relatively narrow, with a diameter of about one inch. That was the new ligament, Ulquiorra assumed.

After several minutes, the screen was clear of the ligament, the tibia and femur completely visible.

"I'm done, I think." Apache announced.

Szayel nodded and glanced at the screen, displaying the clean tibia and femur. He frowned at held the new ligament up to the light. This would do; it was shaped perfectly and ready to be drilled in. He had already stretched it to test its strength, and it had yielded above average results.

"Good. Remove that instrument." Szayel said with a nod. "Carefully." He turned to Grimmjow and pointed vaguely at him.

"By the way, you're helping me with the drill."

"Drill…?" Grimmjow's gaze strayed to the shiny, long drill sitting idle on the instrument table. "No way!" There was no way in hell he'd drill into Stark's knee like that. It was just inhumane and freakish. Blood and guts would be everywhere.

"Okay, make the tibial incision." Szayel sauntered back to Stark, plucking a new scalpel off the instrument table and a pen from his pocket. He beckoned Grimmjow over with his finger.

"Here's where you're going to make the tibial incision." He said. Szayel tapped a spot just below the kneecap, slightly medial to the tibia's center. "It should be about an inch long, to the bone." He held the scalpel out to Grimmjow, who stared at its glinting blade with wide eyes.

"To the bone?" he echoed faintly.

"To the bone." Szayel repeated firmly, rolling his eyes. It was small incision, and a fairly shallow one at that. Grimmjow extended a hand and accepted the scalpel, turning it in his fingers as if it was a foreign object he had never even seen before. His fingers twitched and trembled minimally.

"It's ironic that you, Grimmjow, can't make a small cut even though you kill people, slice them in half, and basically disfigure them." Ulquiorra said. Although the surgical mask hid his insincere smirk, he fooled no one.

"I know, right?" Szayel scoffed. "Get to it." And with that, Szayel busied himself with something else, leaving Grimmjow at the foot of the operation table, looking out of place with the scalpel in hand. He looked down at the neat, dark line Szayel had made with the pen. Maybe he could do this. Maybe. He hadn't started feeling sick—good sign.

Grimmjow, holding his breath and sweating under the pressure, pressed the tip of the scalpel to his skin, yielding nothing but a small mark. So that meant he'd need to add more pressure. He went for it again, sinking the scalpel into the thin layer of skin as slowly as possible. The realization that skin wasn't soft and weak as it looked came to him, and a qualm of nausea overcame him when he sunk the scalpel deep enough to hit the hard, sturdy bone. He gasped when the scalpel was blocked by the bone, but continued making the incision, slowly and carefully as possible. Grimmjow tried to pretend he was cutting into some food and not someone's leg. He also tried to pretend that he'd get a reward for doing this. Upon pulling the scalpel out, he felt a rush of adrenaline and pride as he looked at his neat, clean cut. There was very little blood. Grimmjow grinned. He almost high fived Apache, who was standing next to him, to celebrate his victory over squeamishness and pansiness.

"Very good!" Szayel remarked with a nod. "That's a great cut." He patted Grimmjow awkwardly on the back. "Hey, Ulquiorra, Apache, Grimmjow, go to the instrument table and prep the screws along with the drill. I'm going to start the guide wires with Lumina." He called his fat fraccion over. She handed him a drill and it was then Grimmjow decided to turn his back to the ordeal.

Guide wires. That didn't sound too bad to Grimmjow. In fact, it sounded like something normal that wasn't gross or particularly traumatizing. But with medicine, it was impossible to know. He walked over to the table with the other two, looking down at the strange tools. A needle holder, with the curved needle in its groove winking under the bright lights, was placed next to an extra scalpel. The drill was ominously separated from the rest of the tools, at one end of the tray. He noticed there was a particularly odd, but small one that reminded him of tweezers. But this had little extensions on it—in fact, it looked like tweezers with a wide toothed comb on them. There were several long and skinny scissor-ish things as well.

"What's that?" Apache asked no one in particular. She was pointing to something that made Grimmjow's stomach knot up. It looked like a screwdriver, but massive, with a large metal ring around it and two other extensions. He couldn't imagine what that would be used for. He noticed a nice pair of tweezers and a scissor-like doohickey that looked odd. They stood there, staring at the surgical instruments dumbly, until Szayel joined them.

"You guys look intrigued." Szayel remarked congenially. "Now, we're passing the graft into the center of the knee. Anyone want to help?"

Ulquiorra, Grimmjow, and Apache all gave him blank stares. No way.

"It's fun…" Szayel said in a sing song voice. But then he frowned when no eagerly volunteered. "Apache, Ulquiorra, come with me."

Apache shrugged and Ulquiorra walked stiffly over to the knee which he stared at with disgust. He glanced at Szayel, who held the graft between his thumb and forefinger.

"Grimmjow, retractors." He held a hand open, awaiting the requested instrument. "The thingy with the comb-like dealios that's small." He said, rolling his eyes.

"Oh! Found them!" Grimmjow said. It was the same thing he had been looking at previously. Grimmjow dropped them in Szayel's open hand. He closed his fingers around the deposited retractors and accommodated them in the tibial incision, holding it open so he pass the graft through the guide wire.

"Alright, Ulquiorra." Szayel said with a sigh. "See that thing poking out of the thigh?"

Ulquiorra hadn't noticed a thick white thing that had been inserted into Stark's thigh. He had no idea was it was for, but he could see a long outline of something under Stark's skin. He assumed that was the guide wire…gross. When Szayel wasn't looking, Apache poked it.

"Yes."

"Pull up."

"Pardon?"

"Pull it like any normal thing." Szayel said calmly. "It's just part of the guide wire."

Ulquiorra tugged it slightly, meeting Szayel's gaze to make sure he was doing it right.

"Keep going. I'll tell you when to stop." Szayel said with a nod. He watched the screen keenly, watching until the white ligament was in place. After a few minutes, it was right was it was supposed to be.

"Stop. Good work." Szayel said. "We're almost done. Apache, since you've been quite helpful in keep Grimmjow from fainting just with your presence, you get the honors of drilling the screws in."

"Seriously? Beast." Apache said excitedly. Smiling, he handed the drill to her. A screw was already placed in it. She had to admit, it was a strange drill with an even stranger function, but the adrenaline rush elicited just by holding it made her feel jumpy.

"You must be _very _careful." Szayel warned. "Technically, drilling the screws in isn't what's normally done, but it does the tensioning for us. And since we're Arrancar, our bones will quickly absorb the screws. Can I trust you, Apache?"

"Hells to the yeah." She replied. "So do I put this thing in that hole?"

"Yes."

Grimmjow stared at the drill going deeper and deeper into the tibial tunnel. Nausea started in the pit of his stomach, and increased exponentially when he heard the grating sound of one of the screws being drilled it. His own knees started to fell weak and numb. He looked down at the floor, closing his eyes. The jarring sound came once again, and he cringed involuntarily. Screws didn't belong in a knee. His stomach was flipping over—the puke factor had arrived.

"S-Szayel…?" Grimmjow questioned weakly.

"What is it, Grimmjow?" Szayel asked. He pulled the drill out, setting it on the instrument tray. He plucked the needle holder off the tray and placed his fingers in the loopholes.

"What's the fastest cure for intense nausea?" Grimmjow asked shyly.

Szayel's head snapped to Grimmjow, and he looked over him over critically. Grimmjow was almost the color of the white tile, maybe a little greener, Szayel noticed.

"Well, not being a pansy is the number one cure recommended by doctors." He said sarcastically. "Obviously." He turned to Ulquiorra and Apache. "Now, we're going to suture in layers…"

Well, that wasn't much help. Grimmjow still felt imminent puke. He'd rather pass out than feel nauseous. He inched toward the door, staring at the ceiling, just in case he needed to make a mad dash out of there.

Ulquiorra didn't really mind needles. Well, he hated them when they were in him, but he was the one to administer the anesthetic solution to the knee. He pulled the needle out and handed it to Szayel, who disposed out of it.

When Grimmjow's stomach unclenched and the warmth returned to his cheeks a few minutes later, he looked down to see the tibial incision he made fully closed with sutures. In fact, there was an ugly black brace running from Stark's ankle to his thigh. Ilforte had already pulled the endotracheal tube out of the Stark's mouth.

"Good work, everyone!" Szayel said enthusiastically. "Everything went quite well. And Grimmjow here didn't pass out." He winked at Grimmjow and left the operating room.

-

-

The first thing Stark heard was voices, very vague and unintelligible. His thoughts were convoluted, disrupted by the monotonous beep of the cardiac monitor somewhere nearby. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to wake up—it was out of his control. He was a pleasant state of bliss, unworried with anything occurring around him. Some minutes later, the voices became clear and sharp. He was able to pick Szayel's voice from the mix first, due to his slight accent and the cadence of his voice, followed by Ulquiorra's quiet drawl and Grimmjow's choppy, rumbly sentences. Apache's fast speaking he was able to pick out last. And then, Stark shifted a little.

"He moved!" Grimmjow exclaimed. "Can I wake him up?"

"Of course not!" Szayel said hotly.

Stark opened his eyes just then. Grimmjow was standing over him, and Szayel was a few feet behind, arms folded. He smiled at Stark for a moment before shoving Grimmjow aside, much to Grimmjow's annoyance.

"Hello. How are you feeling?" Szayel inquired politely.

Stark frowned and rubbed his eyes. He felt groggy, more than ever before. Stark just wanted to go right back to sleep, and sleep for days upon days. Just making himself comfortable spent his energy. He let his eyelids fall over his eyes.

"Okay, I guess…" Stark replied quietly.

"Not nauseous? No pain?" Szayel asked. He tapped his pen against paper, staring him down with glowing yellow eyes, urgent expression on his face.

"No. Just tired." Stark answered with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

"That's to be expected." Szayel said, patting his shoulder. "The surgery went well. If you haven't noticed…" Szayel pulled the blankets off of Stark, revealing a massive black leg brace that ran from his ankle to the middle of his thigh. _That _was attractive. Stark's lip curled involuntarily. He found he couldn't bend his knee; the brace was locked. There was also a thick dressing on his knee. "You're in a locked brace and sterile dressing. Morphine, steroids, and anti rejection meds are flowing through your body via IV. Can you feel your knee?"

"Um. No." Stark replied slowly.

"Good!" Szayel grinned at him briefly. "You're not supposed to."

Stark gave him a funny look but said nothing. He didn't want to know why he shouldn't be able to feel his knee.

"And you'll be hobbling around on those for about two weeks." Szayel pointed to the wall, where the crutches were supposed to be leaning. But they were gone, and so were Grimmjow and Apache. Down the hallway, they heard giggles. Szayel let out an exasperated sigh. He craned his head around the curtain closing off the room, and frowned. "I hope you know those can be used against you." He was addressing Grimmjow, who was using crutches in the most retarded way possible. He had managed to stick a leg through one of them and used the other like a cane. It was a Kodak moment.

"Oh. Well, this is the more fun way." Grimmjow said defiantly.

"I don't suppose you'd like to break your arm _again_?" Szayel said pointedly. He could see a nasty break in his future—if the crutch he was using like a cane slipped out from under him, he'd fall on his elbow and shatter his ulna. And he wasn't going to do another surgery that day.

Grimmjow untangled himself from the crutches and handed them back to Szayel, looking at him warily. He sure as hell didn't want to go through that again. Apache snickered when she saw the look on Grimmjow's face. They followed Szayel back to Stark's bed.

"Ahem. Like I was saying, these crutches will be your good friends for about two weeks."

Stark blinked quite slowly, taking it all in.

"This sucks." He murmured.

"Sure does!" Grimmjow agreed, dumping himself in a seat. "Who wants cripple sticks as friends?"

"Grimmjow, shut the fuck up, for once." Stark said emphatically. "Seriously."

"Yes, please…" Ulquiorra said under his breath. He frowned when everyone turned to look at him. Apparently, hearing his voice was a rarity. Ulquiorra hated it when people looked at him. He hated being the center of attention. Ulquiorra said a quick prayer for someone else to talk. And thankfully, someone did.

"Hey, man." Grimmjow put his hands up defensively. "Relax."

"Be quiet." Szayel snapped. "Go eat some Lucky Charms or something."

That reminded Stark of his hunger. He was quite hungry, but didn't want to eat. Too tired. "Can I go back to sleep?"

A look of concern passed over Szayel's face. His eyes flickered to the cardiac monitor, and back to Stark.

"No. The pulse ox," Szayel pointed to the clamp around the index finger on Stark's right hand, "will start beeping when your oxygen level goes below ninety. When that happens, breathe harder and deeper."

"Why is that so important?" Stark grumbled. "Why don't you understand that I want to sleep?"

"You have to stay awake. If you'd like, I can get you something to drink."Szayel offered coolly.

"Oh, yeah, because water really does the trick in waking people up, right?" Grimmjow piped up sarcastically. Count on Grimmjow to make pointless comments.

"Not unless you throw it on them." Apache said thoughtfully. Count on Apache to reply to pointless comments.

"I'll be right back." Szayel said. He didn't hesitate in stepping on Grimmjow's foot on his way out of the room. Grimmjow gave his back the bird none too conspicuously. Ulquiorra was watching Stark keenly; his green eyes were boring holes into Stark.

"What?" Stark demanded irritably. "Is there something on my face?"

"No." Ulquiorra replied blandly.

"Then what's the big deal?"

Ulquiorra ignored him and looked around with mild interest. Everything got a little more interesting, however, when Szayel showed up with a can of Dr. Pepper minutes later, complete with a bendy straw. But something about the look on Szayel's face indicated the straw was not his idea. He handed it to Stark.

"Sip this. The sugar should wake you up." Szayel said. "We'll start rehab in a week—"

"Rehab?" Stark echoed weakly. He looked down at his knee. Oh, that's right, it had the ligament from some random dead Arrancar inside. What was even more morbid was wondering how the donor died…or was killed.

"Of course." Szayel said matter of factly.

"Can we discuss this later?" Stark asked—pleaded—as he set down the soda. He wasn't feeling very well all of a sudden.

"Yes, yes." Szayel concurred. He marked something on a piece of paper in a manila folder. "I can see by the pallor of your skin that you're a bit nauseous. Not to worry, it's the anesthesia. Call me if you need anything."

With that, he shooed everyone out of the room, leaving Stark alone in the cold room. But he was relatively comfortable. The blankets were warm and everything was quiet. Stark wanted nothing more than a nap, but the damn pulse oximeter had a spazz attack every time he dozed off. And it was with great relish he pulled the pulse ox off his finger and rolled over to start his uninterrupted nap.

* * *

I hope you guys liked it. I tried to make it as accurate as possible, but it's hard to find info when you're not the surgeon or in the room when it happens. Either way, please review. And for those of you who have finals next week like me, good luck!


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Monopoly

Teehee, I like this chapter.

* * *

Ulquiorra knew something was wrong even before he was fully conscious. Something was _very _wrong. He was hot, sweaty, and felt like sandbags were keeping him pressed to his wet mattress. Fatigue, malaise had him in a tight grip. Was he dreaming? He blinked a few times, clearing his vision. A brief wave of panic came over him when he tried to lift his head off the pillow and found it took an incredible amount of energy, leaving him slightly out of breath. Ulquiorra found his throat was sore to the point where swallowing was unbearable.

"Shit." He murmured. Was what he going to do? Confined to his bed, he couldn't do anything. His cell phone was lying on his bedside table nearby, but he was too tired to reach for it to call someone. Perhaps he needed coffee, something to wake him up?

-

-

Szayel was walking briskly around his lab, and behind his fake smile and patience he was distinctly annoyed. When he was in his sanctuary—the lab—he liked to work alone with nobody breathing down his neck or touching anything. Even his retarded fraccion knew better than to hang around him unless he summoned them as he worked. It might've been because he was scary as fuck when mad. And he would also eat them alive if they bothered him too much, which was not a pleasant consequence. Or beat them with his sword, and many other torturous punishments. But, today, the problem was not the fraccion or experimental dysfunction. Nope. Today, a certain someone was following him around, firing stupid questions and inane remarks that had Szayel's nerves buzzing. Couldn't Grimmjow just leave him alone? Dear Lord. "Can ovaries commit suicide?" was not a valid question, much less one that even needed an answer.

"No." Szayel snorted. "That's what a hysterectomy is for."

"Haha! That sounds like a food dish!" Grimmjow remarked. "Also, what is _that_?" He pointed to something smoking on the black-topped table.

"It's an Erlenmeyer flask." Szayel answered. When he saw Grimmjow extend an arm to touch it, he shrieked, "Don't touch it!"

Grimmjow pulled back, smiling sheepishly.

"I wasn't going to." Grimmjow replied.

"I'm so sure." Szayel murmured sarcastically.

Szayel was up to his elbows in thick black rubber gloves, and clad in a white lab coat made of thick material that buttoned on his left side. He studied Grimmjow for a moment.

"And you don't have anything better to do?" Szayel asked coldly. Quite frankly, Grimmjow had plenty of things to do that were much better than following scientists around. He could do risky things with Noitora, go on lolcats, buy stuff on ebay with Ulquiorra's credit card, eat, and go outside, or swim. It was a hot and sunny day, after all. The female Espada were out getting a tan, or playing 'beach' volleyball with some other Arrancar.

Grimmjow frowned and looked up at the vaulted ceiling, thinking of something to reply with. Because Grimmjow was Grimmjow, he didn't think of anything witty to say.

"Not particularly." He replied. "By the way, what time is it?"

Szayel, caught off guard by the innocuous question, tipped his head to side and gave Grimmjow a strange look before rushing over to his laptop to check the time.

"It's eleven thirty." He answered blandly. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I was going to mess with Ulquiorra because this lab sucks and you're PMSing, but he isn't awake. I can't really sense his reiatsu." Grimmjow said with a shrug. "Eh, he's more fun to mess around with when he's all drugged up off of sleep."

Because Szayel was so used to feeling everyone's reiatsu, he learned to just ignore it. But Grimmjow had pointed something out—Ulquiorra's reiatsu was quite weak at the moment.

"He's just in time for Aizen's meeting, then." Szayel said.

"Damn, I forgot about that!"

"It's his luncheon…" Szayel made a face a disgusted face as he peeled off his gloves. He didn't even get a chance to start with his experiment. "I am so sick of tea and biscuits it's not even funny."

Grimmjow snorted in agreement, flanking Szayel as they headed for the meeting room.

"I will projectile vomit on him if he tries to force me to drink that shit." Grimmjow said under his breath.

Szayel chuckled and added, "And I might join you."

They walked into the meeting room and took their seats. Aizen, Gin, and Tousen weren't there yet…of course. They always arrived some five to ten minutes late. Szayel took his seat on Stark's left side, greeting him curtly. On Stark's other side was Halibel, whose hand was entwined with Stark's on the table. Noitora was texting somebody, and judging from the smirk on his face, it was something naughty. Gross. Yami was picking his nose. Double gross. Barragan was taking his blood pressure, mumbling stuff about whippersnappers. Zomari was reading, unaware of his surroundings. Grimmjow was staring into space with a mildly curious expression. The table was full, save for two spots, one of which belonged to the deceased Aaroniero, and the one on the right of Aizen's chair, which belonged to Ulquiorra.

Stark leaned over to Szayel just as Aizen, Gin, and Tousen waltzed in and asked, "Is Tousen carrying tea?"

Szayel squinted. Why did all the rooms have to be so unnecessarily huge? What was the purpose of that? He could only see their silhouettes as they entered the room.

"I don't think so." Szayel replied tentatively.

"Good. I think I'll throw up if I have to drink it." Stark sneered.

Aizen flashed them all a placid, stunningly white smile and ran a hand through his luscious brown hair, complete with blonde highlights that were 'natural'. He took his seat at the front while Tousen and Gin hung behind, guarding the entrance to the room.

"Well, hello, my dear Espada." Aizen said in an extremely provocative purr. Noitora coughed lightly to cover the retch elicited by Aizen's greeting. "I take it you are all…" the smile faded slowly from his face when he noticed Ulquiorra's chair was empty. "Where's Ulquiorra?" Aizen demanded semi-hysterically. It was like a flashback of several months ago.

Everyone looked at him blankly, shrugging.

"I saw him last night." Halibel put in.

"Me too." Stark said with a nod.

"Same." Noitora said.

Szayel exchanged glances with Grimmjow, who raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

"I saw him this morning—oh wait, no, that was just a zombie in my video game." Yami snickered. "False alarm, people, false alarm."

Aizen gave him a cold, heartless smile.

"Quite." Aizen said curtly. "Where is he, I wonder?"

"Well, maybe he forgot." Stark suggested calmly, reasonably. "It happens—"

"Not to Ulquiorra." Aizen said coldly. "Never."

"Excuse me, Aizen-sama." Szayel interrupted coolly. "With all due respect, we should get the meeting going—"

The loud creaking of the door silenced Szayel before Aizen could punch him. Everyone turned to look as light flooded in, leaving the silhouette of a slim figure, and the spike on his helmet—Ulquiorra. He let the doors close behind him, and walked very slowly to the table. It wasn't until he was closer they noticed he resembled a corpse. Not only was he more gray that unusual, his emerald green eyes that were so sharp and shrewd were glazed over, bored and dull. A thin layer of sweat was on his pale brow and his jaw was set. His movements were sluggish and loose, as opposed to his usual brisk and controlled actions. He turned to Aizen, and dipped into a sluggish, jerky bow.

"I apologize for my tardiness, Aizen-sama." Ulquiorra said monotonously. "It would be an honor to have your forgiveness." He sat down in his chair with a small sigh.

"But of course, Ulquiorra. You are forgiven. By all means, have some tea." Aizen snapped his manicured fingers. He watched Ulquiorra out of the corner of his eyes. Something was wrong. At the mention of tea, horror flickered over everyone's faces, especially Ulquiorra, who didn't look like he could stomach anything.

"No, thank you." Ulquiorra said quickly. Even then, his courtesy was flawless.

"Oh, but tea is the essence of class." Aizen insisted with a small scowl. "It is also packed with nutrients and very delicious."

"It is not necessary." Ulquiorra said. "I am fine, thank you."

Grimmjow was dying to butt in and stop Aizen. He couldn't handle tea. Another thing he couldn't handle was vomit, which Ulquiorra would likely do if he had tea. Although all the Espada hated tea, biscuits, and anything Aizen served them, Ulquiorra was the one that hated tea to the point where he'd leave the room if he saw or even smelled it. Others could tolerate it, heck, Noitora could drink it—albeit reluctantly—but Ulquiorra could not. Want to get Ulquiorra off your case? Carry tea around with you. It's the same concept as vampires and garlic.

"Please, have some, my dear Ulquiorra." Aizen said insistently, pouring him some to the brim of the mug. Silver plumes of steam curled gracefully and evanesced into the cold air.

"I don't want any." Ulquiorra said firmly. Tension was felt in the room just as Ulquiorra said those words. Denying Aizen? It was unheard of. No Espada had ever done that before. Ever. Aizen stared at Ulquiorra with wide eyes, until he nodded stiffly, blanching from the shock of being denied by his favorite. He didn't notice his favorite's fast breathing or lackluster eyes, however.

"Very well, then." He cleared his throat. "Let us continue this meeting. Our first issue is the food supply in the kitchen—"

Grimmjow waited until Aizen lost himself in his ramble before leaning over to Ulquiorra, who was sitting next to him.

"Are you alright?" he asked in the lowest whisper he could muster. Ulquiorra swallowed and shook his head minimally.

"No." he replied weakly. "I think I'm going to faint."

Grimmjow's lip curled and he leaned away.

"Well, that's not my problem." Grimmjow said coldly. "Good luck with that."

Ironically, he was the one that fainted at the sight of blood. Apparently, he couldn't show sympathy either. Throughout the meeting, he made weird faces at Ulquiorra.

"—Grimmjow, is why it is important to not have fights with shampoo in the showers, for maintenance costs go up." Aizen said pointedly. "As I was saying…"

By now, everyone tuned out. Stark was sleeping with his eyes open, a technique he saved only for these meetings. Chin in hand, he stared ahead of him, still as a statue. Szayel was looking at the table, wondering what viruses or bacteria were on it this very moment, or what had happened on this table that accounted for some odd stains he noticed. Halibel was hardly paying attention. Nobody really cared for what Aizen had to say. He loved to hear himself talk. Not only was it his hobby, it was basically the only thing he liked to do besides vacationing to San Francisco every few months. And then, the meeting was cut short.

With a small sigh, Ulquiorra fainted, head landing on the table with a loud _thunk_. His black hair brushed the table neatly, contrasting against the white, and his face was contorted in a pained expression.

For a moment, there was silence. The silence was immediately broken.

"Holy shit, sudden death!" Noitora screamed, jumping out of his chair.

"I knew it, I knew it! Even smelling tea is toxic!" Grimmjow said loudly, leaning as far away as possible from Ulquiorra.

"This is…a problem." Stark murmured eyes wide. He folded his arms and leaned back, unwilling to get himself involved in this.

Halibel said nothing—of course—she only stared with wide green eyes at the spectacle before her. Ulquiorra, pale, lying on the table. That was something she thought she'd never see. It was concerning, in a sense.

Aizen's brown eyes were wide, almost the size of Ritz™ crackers. He had a hand over his mouth and held his breath. No. This was impossible! Was Ulquiorra dead? What happened? He began to tremble out of sheer anxiety.

Szayel, frowning, rushed to Ulquiorra's side.

"Come on, get up." Szayel said gruffly, shaking Ulquiorra awake. He did not move, and that struck Szayel was odd. It seemed he hadn't fallen asleep out of boredom. So, he checked Ulquiorra's vital signs. He placed a hand under Ulquiorra's jaw and raised an eyebrow, as it was warm. However, he had a pulse, which was definitely a good thing. "Oh…a fever."

"Does he have a pulse? What's wrong with him?" Aizen demanded, lowering at Szayel.

Grimmjow, blue eyes wide and curious, stared on in shock. He poked Ulquiorra, and jumped back, expecting Ulquiorra to strike like a snake.

"You're not going to get a response, idiot." Noitora snorted. "You might if poke him in the right places, however. Rather, poke something somewhe—"

"Noitora, stop being disgusting." Halibel said scathingly. She joined the horde circled around Ulquiorra. Stark was at her side, though he hung back, not wanting to have to do with any of this.

"I'll have to diagnose in the lab." Szayel said, pulling Ulquiorra's thin arm around his shoulder. "Anyone want to join me?" he asked with a sheepish smile.

-

-

Ulquiorra's eyes shot open and he slapped Szayel's hand away, breathing hard and feeling a massive headache coming on from the bright light that shone above him. The smell. Something had either been shoved up his nose or inhaled, because his eyes were watering and he found the scent would not go away. It was a sharp, pungent scent that was overly clean. He coughed a few times.

"And that is how the smelling salts work." Szayel said to everyone, tossing a little cylinder in the trashcan. "Oh, good morning, Ulquiorra."

Ulquiorra counted six people standing above him, all of which stared down at him like a test subject. It added to his intense physical discomfort—he really didn't want spectators nearby for the moment of diagnosis.

"What happened?" he asked hoarsely, blocking the light with a trembling hand.

"You fainted." Grimmjow informed candidly. "Like, legitly. Noitora thought you died."

"Actually, that's what I hoping." Noitora sneered. "But of course, my dreams get shot down."

Ulquiorra did not even bother replying. He was way too tired and didn't want to waste his time with freaks like Noitora. And it was just dandier when Szayel shone a ridiculously bright light in both of his eyes to make sure his pupils 'reacted accordingly' to prove he wasn't suffering from a head injury. He wanted to punch everyone, good and hard.

"I don't feel good." Ulquiorra whispered, letting his eyes fall shut. "Please leave."

"I don't think so." Szayel said briskly. "You had a fever of one hundred five degrees, a sure sign of infection. We're pumping ibuprofen into you." He tapped the IV on Ulquiorra's left hand. "Grimmjow actually started this one; Aizen was in desperate need of valium." He smiled proudly at Grimmjow, who cleared his throat and looked at the floor. Ulquiorra did a double take and inspected his hand, scowling. Grimmjow? Wow. He would've guessed otherwise.

"So." Szayel grew serious. Reflexively, he adjusted his glasses. "I'm suspecting a nasty case of the flu or a virus, both of which are unusual in the middle of July." He clicked his penlight on with his left hand, and Ulquiorra's gaze strayed fearfully to the long cotton swab he held in his right hand. This would end badly. Ulquiorra's gag reflex had proved to be an issue in his recurrent strep attacks before the tonsillectomy. "Open wide." Szayel said firmly. He shone the light in there and raised an eyebrow.

"Is this necessary?" Ulquiorra demanded weakly.

"Yup. There are white spots in the back of your throat." Szayel answered. "If the strep test is negative, a blood test will be in order." Blood test? Ulquiorra found its title strangely ominous. He noticed that, at the mention of blood, Grimmjow cringed.

"Hold on a sec." Stark put a hand to his temple, massaging it vigorously. "Ulquiorra doesn't have tonsils. How can he get strep?"

"Strep resides in the saliva." Szayel said shortly. "Everyone, stand back a bit. This could get nasty."

Ulquiorra had no choice. He opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. The routine was so familiar—now Szayel would look at his throat, make a snide remark, and swab him.

"You look like Gene Simmons with your tongue out like that." Grimmjow pointed out, sniggering. "But not even half as cool."

"Agreed. But Gene's kind of a fatty and Ulquiorra's one scrawny mofo." Noitora said with a snort. Grimmjow snickered and smirked at Ulquiorra, who glowered at them both.

"That and Gene Simmons doesn't have a throat as nasty as this one." There was Szayel's snide remark. Like a cobra on steroids, Szayel went in there with that swab before Ulquiorra knew what was going on. Once he felt the tip of the swab begins its little dance at the back of his tongue, his stomach muscles clenched. And the swab was out just as fast as it was in, giving Ulquiorra some time to recover from the disturbance. He coughed dryly a few times, pressing a hand to his mouth.

"Good." Szayel said shortly. "I'll be back in five minutes."

Once Szayel was out of earshot, the talking began.

"What a crazy fuck." Noitora said with shake of his head. "Did you see his face when he jammed that swab in there? Looked like a damn child molester."

"He's a bit sadistic." Halibel pointed out, tipping her head to the side gracefully.

"Depends on the person." Stark said. It seemed he was only voice of reason in this madhouse, along with Halibel. "For example, with me, he's pretty decent. With Ulquiorra, I think he has some more fun."

Ulquiorra didn't even bother pointing out that he was _right there _and could hear everything they said.

"Dude, did you guys see him jam the needle in Aizen's arm?" Grimmjow asked with wide eyes. "It was like he was throwing a mini, non lethal javelin in there."

"And it shut Aizen up fast." Noitora sniggered.

"What happened?" Ulquiorra asked. He missed this odd episode.

"Oh, well, that's a funny story." Grimmjow gave a loud hoot of laughter. "Nah, it's fucking hilarious. Szayel told me to start the IV because Aizen was pissing him off because Aizen was being a bitch and getting in Szayel's way. So he goes and gets a huge ass needle, charges at Aizen, and jams it in his arm. Three seconds later, Aizen was on the floor, half asleep and mumbling stuff."

Ulquiorra could see that happening. Aizen hyperventilating and yelling at Szayel, only to be bitten on the butt—arm, in this case—by a big fat needle wielded as a deadly weapon by Szayel. Szayel was relatively calm, a little cool in demeanor. That was only until you made him mad, which was both easy and hard to do. And it was very reasonable that he lost it with it Aizen. And if it weren't for that, Aizen would be stroking Ulquiorra's cheek, standing over the examination table. Aizen, Ulquiorra noticed, had an almost kinky obsession with him. When Aizen appeared out of nowhere in front of Ulquiorra, rape anxiety came over him. Aizen was unpredictable. Ulquiorra did not appreciate that, because he never knew what Aizen would do him. In fact, when he was called to the throne room, Ulquiorra always hoped there was someone there to intervene in the case of the unimaginable…or, unwanted.

"What was that med called, the liquid in the needle? Vicodin? Valiant…?" Stark murmured. He looked to Halibel for help, since she was always paying attention to the minute details.

"Valium." Halibel said. "It's a commonly used and very helpful sedative."

"I noticed." Stark said with s small smile. "Very potent." He turned to Ulquiorra. "So, what's wrong with you? You look like you were hit by a bus."

"I feel that way." Ulquiorra said under his breath.

"Hm. What do you think it is?" Stark questioned.

Ulquiorra shrugged minimally, too lazy to reply. His throat was burning. The pain radiated to the whole back of his mouth and he could hardly swallow. He felt hot and sweaty, weak. Now that he was in a comfy bed—well, as comfy as an examination table could be—he was doubting his ability to move.

The room went silent when Szayel returned. Everyone gave him berth as he approached the examination table.

"Good news. It's not strep. Now, tell me your symptoms one more time. I think I'm onto something." Szayel said eagerly.

"Tired. Headache. Sore throat. Fever. Crappy feeling in general." Ulquiorra said quietly.

Szayel tapped his chin with his finger and inclined his head to the side, studying Ulquiorra. "Let's see. Lymph nodes…" he muttered. Ulquiorra twitched when Szayel's cold fingers ran up his jaw line, softly touching under his chin. Szayel bit his lip and folded his arms. "Swollen lymph nodes. One more test before I make the diagnosis. Take off your shirt."

Noitora snorted rather loudly, only to have his foot crunched by Stark's.

"Do I have to?" Ulquiorra snapped, scowling.

"Yes."Szayel said decisively. "I'm going to check for splenomegaly. At least pull your shirt up."

Ulquiorra rolled his eyes and had no choice but to comply. Now that half of his abdomen was exposed, he felt cold. How come no one else was freezing their asses off? Everyone was staring at his chiseled abs with mild interest. Ulquiorra played Szayel would just hurry up.

"What the hell's a splee-no-mega-lee?" Grimmjow inquired. He had to sound out the word like a first grader.

"Splenomegaly," the word seemed to roll right off of Halibel's tongue, "is the swelling of the spleen, as the name suggests." Halibel explained. "The spleen produces red blood cells and stores extra blood. It can be felt along the tissue contours of the last rib on the left."

"So, like, how big is this 'spleen' normally?" Noitora asked.

"A few inches in diameter." Halibel replied. "It's relatively small and you can live without it. In the case of rupture, it can be removed by a splenectomy."

Ulquiorra winced when Szayel's hand touched him. They were so cold. The palpation started a few inches below the final rib on the left side, and he prodded very carefully as he worked his way up. His expression was blank until his felt something firm against his fingers. It was then he raised his eyebrows.

"Found it. Moderate splenomegaly." Szayel announced. "Looks like a blood test won't be necessary." He peered at Ulquiorra over the rims of his glasses, and for a moment a look of malice came over him. "All of your symptoms match up to infectious mononucleosis, also known as…" Szayel chuckled and rubbed his hands together. "The kissing disease."

There was a collective gasp in the room.

Noitora collapsed into a fit of hysterical laughter, doubled over and gasping for breath. Through gasps he said, "Oh, lordy! Ulquiorra? Kissing? Yeah, right! Oh, man, this is too much…phahaha!"

"Wait, wait, wait…Ulquiorra? Kissing disease? There's no fucking way!" Grimmjow said, waving his arms around. "And what the hell's monopoly-osis, anyway?"

"Mononucleosis is caused by the Epstein-Barr virus. It affects mostly teenagers. Its incubation period is four to six weeks. Mono, as it is commonly called, lasts for about three to four weeks after initial infection. After that, the person will live with the virus for the rest of his life, though he may not be contagious." Halibel explained once again.

"Well, aren't you the fountain of knowledge." Szayel said in a snippy tone. "What I'm more concerned with is _how _he contracted the virus." A smirk marred his cool expression. "Somebody has some explaining to do."

"My, my." Stark sniggered, genuinely entertained by the scene. "I thought mono was transmitted through saliva. So maybe he drank after someone that had mono?"

"Untrue. I tested that theory not long ago with Ilforte." Szayel wagged a finger at him. Stark resisted the urge to roll his eyes—damn smart people. "We concluded that Arrancar cannot contract mono from drinking after other Arrancar or sharing things such as chapstick. Also, we cannot pass the virus to each other because we have several more antibodies and defense mechanisms to fend off viruses and bacteria. We can only contract it from human, whether or whether not they are contagious or have already gotten over the symptoms."

"Therefore, the only way for him to have contracted would be by kissing a human. And the only human here is that redhead." Stark finished. "Wow, Ulquiorra. Nice job with your prisoner."

Ulquiorra was absolutely mortified. He was frozen, looking at them all with a surprised but guilty expression on his ashen face.

"No comment." Ulquiorra said stiffly. He didn't want to admit or elaborate on the fun he and his prisoner have been having…it was harmless fun, of course. He didn't think a few kisses would hurt, but apparently, he was wrong. But this must've meant that she had immunity to the virus from a previous bout, meaning she wouldn't be able to get again. Hehe.

"Ah-ha!" Grimmjow pointed an accusing finger at Ulquiorra. "'No comment' always means that it's true! It's all fun and games until someone gets monopoly!"

"It's mono, you retard." Noitora corrected with a roll of his eyes. He wolf whistled. "Ulquiorra's getting it _on._"

"Shut up." Ulquiorra said gruffly.

Szayel cleared his throat rather pointedly. He adjusted his glasses.

"There is no cure for mono."

"Great, is it terminal?" Grimmjow asked eagerly.

"No." Szayel said snapped. "Treat it like the flu—stay hydrated, rest, and control the fever. Avoid any strenuous activities for a month. For now, Ulquiorra, you can rest here." Szayel said, patting him gingerly. "Don't worry, most people get mono at some point in their lives."

"Did you?" Ulquiorra asked gruffly.

Szayel averted his gaze and coughed nervously. "Well, I'd rather not elaborate." He regained his composure. "Anyway, that's the diagnosis. One more thing—if you feel a sharp pain in the upper right quadrant of your abdomen, it's possible your spleen has ruptured."

"If that happens, find Szayel immediately. The rupture can be fatal if untreated." Halibel cut in. "Spleen ruptures are caused by blunt force trauma to the general area of the spleen or strenuous activity. Sometimes, it will rupture spontaneously."

"Yes. And I'll do the splenectomy right away." Szayel said with an overly enthusiastic smile. "Well, I think it's time to let Ulquiorra rest." Szayel ushered the horde of onlookers out.

"Feel better." Stark said bluntly. He gave Ulquiorra a wave and walked out of the room, leaving Ulquiorra alone with Szayel. The smile fell right off Szayel's face. He walked over to Ulquiorra's beside and lowered at him.

"Do you need 'the talk'?" Szayel questioned.

"No." Ulquiorra replied with a short sigh. Especially not from Szayel. Szayel was one of those people that could give a sex ed class and maintain a straight face—it was almost unnatural. In fact, Ulquiorra would rather get the talk from Noitora or Grimmjow, who would be laughing the whole time and making jokes. Hell, even Stark would crack a smile at the memory…

"Are you familiar with the terms HIV, AIDS, and death?" Szayel asked sharply. "All in that order?"

"Yes." Ulquiorra drawled.

"How about chlamydia?"

"…Yes…" Ulquiorra lied. He didn't really care what it was, anyway. It sounded like a name that should belong to a Pokémon.

"And STD? You know what those are, right? Sexually transmitted—"

"Szayel, stop it." Ulquiorra said sharply. "I'm not that naïve." Ulquiorra didn't realize the glib comment that would elicit from Szayel until it was out of his mouth.

"I noticed." Szayel said coldly. He was quiet for a moment, but continued to survey Ulquiorra very critically until he became bored. Ulquiorra took this as an opportunity to sleep. So he did.

* * *

I finally found out what's wrong with my knee. :D Please review.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: No Pain, No Gain

* * *

Ulquiorra gasped and pressed a hand to the left side of his ribcage suddenly. His lips parted and he held his breath, waiting for the sudden pain to stop. When it did, he sighed. Sudden, intense pangs of pain had been erupting in the left side of his abdomen since early this morning. He was getting a little tired of it. He was also tired of being tired, as he was two weeks into a bout of mononucleosis that had proven to be unpleasant in several ways.

"What was that all about?" Halibel questioned, looking up from a book. She sat on the couch across from his, lounging on her side.

"Nothing." Ulquiorra replied quickly. He frowned and tried to return his focus to the page.

Halibel harrumphed something under her breath, but stayed quiet. It wasn't her nature to get involved in other people's problems. In fact, she used to like to meddle—unobtrusively, of course—in other people's affairs, but now that she had an actual person growing inside her, she understood how annoying it was to having people butting in to private affairs. Halibel glanced at Stark, who was sitting next to her on the couch. Although he had come to accompany her "just in case", he ended up napping on the bolster. And she didn't blame him. Stark was more of a math person.

Las Noches' library was proportionately large and confusing as the rest of Las Noches. In summation, it was a nerd's paradise. Books of all topics, length, and difficulty were assembled on the neat white shelves, and couches were placed here and there for convenience. Ulquiorra knew the library by heart, and Halibel too. Because they were into 'smart people stuff', that automatically made them 'nerds'. The nicknames were courtesy of Grimmjow and Noitora. However, it didn't bother Ulquiorra or Halibel one bit. Because they'd be able to smoke everyone else in a literature or philosophy competition. Knowledge is power, they say.

"You know, your pain could be caused by a ruptured spleen." Halibel closed her book and sat up, surveying Ulquiorra.

"That's not the problem." Ulquiorra winced. The sharp bursts of pain were occurring more and more often, becoming more intense each time.

"Are you sure about that?" Halibel said coolly. As far as she could tell, Ulquiorra was one of those people that didn't like doctors too much.

"Of—" Ulquiorra stopped and suddenly doubled over in pain, clutching his side. He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence as he was in too much shock to even talk, much less breathe—it was too painful.

"Let's go see Szayel." Halibel said.

"Wait, what?" Stark rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up, squinting in the light. "Szayel? What for?"

"I suspect Ulquiorra's spleen has ruptured." Halibel said with a sure nod.

"Oh." Stark raised his eyebrows. "Shit." He actually didn't know what the spleen was, he was just playing along. Sometimes, it was best to do it that way. He had learned that over the past few months, no thanks to Halibel's mood swings. She and Stark rose from the couch. Halibel beckoned Ulquiorra over with her finger, but Ulquiorra glared at her.

"No." he said firmly. Ulquiorra shook his head. "_No._"

"Ulquiorra. Perhaps I should explain to you what a ruptured spleen is." Halibel said coldly. She cleared her throat. "The spleen produces red blood cells and stores blood. As explained before, you have moderate splenomegaly. This makes the spleen more susceptible to rupture as part of it is no longer tucked under the ribcage but out with the rest of the abdominal organs. When it ruptures, spontaneously or due to trauma, hemorrhaging begins." Stark smirked. Halibel was about to finish with a dramatic statement. "So, if you don't seek medical attention, you'll be _suffocated_ by your own _blood_."

Stark watched as Ulquiorra's eyes widened slightly. He closed his book. And at once, he was walking with them to Szayel's lab. Of course, he didn't want to be there, but Halibel wouldn't let him turn back or try to escape. Stark smiled to himself—although Halibel was the one that put him through the hellish ACL surgery and months of rehab, she had proven that she cared. Halibel was like that…she was cold, serious, even distant, but when it came to those she was acquainted with her good side shone.

Stark held the door to Stark's lab open for Ulquiorra and Halibel, letting it shut behind him after they entered. Like usual, the lab was busy. Szayel's fraccion were running around, carrying massive stacks of paper or flasks full of liquids. Either way, it was easy to pick Szayel out from the crowd due to his height and distinct hair color. In fact, he was standing right by the hallway that led to the dreaded medical rooms. But, he was talking to someone. And that someone was none other than Grimmjow. Grimmjow was rocking on his heels, in an almost meek stance. But he looked like he wanted to strangle Szayel nonetheless. His fingers were twitching.

"…retarded or something?" Szayel demanded severely, wagging a finger at Grimmjow. Stark was about to butt in, but he thought better of it when he the furious look in Szayel's orange eyes. He continued his tirade. "Apache is a foot shorter than you, a hundred pounds lighter, and built like a bird, but you still challenge her to a 'battle royale'?"

Grimmjow opened his mouth to reply defiantly, but cut off by Szayel.

"_Three places, _Grimmjow, _three places_!" Szayel said emphatically, whacking a manila folder against his hand. He opened it briefly and glanced at something inside, grimaced, and murmured, "Dear Lord."

"It was her idea!" Grimmjow protested.

"Shut up!" Szayel said sharply. He silenced Grimmjow with a wave of his hand and forced a smile for Stark, Halibel, and Ulquiorra, who took a few steps back. "Hi. Is there anything you need?"

"No." Ulquiorra answered quickly.

"I think Ulquiorra's spleen has ruptured." Halibel said stonily. "And I'd like you to determine that."  
Szayel raised an eyebrow and studied Ulquiorra. Ulquiorra was bit hunched over, arms folded tightly against his stomach. He winced suddenly and muttered a stifled "Shit."

"Ah…" Szayel paused for a moment to accept some x-rays from Verona. "Well." He scoffed incredulously and adjusted his glasses. "This is quite unseemly." Szayel smiled thinly. "Well, Ulquiorra, come with me. In fact, all of you will need to come with me." Szayel waved them over and led them down the famous hallway. Immediately, Stark became nervous. It smelled clean, sterile. The tile shone under the light. With a sweeping gesture, Szayel led the group into an exam room. He pointed to the bed.

"Lie down, Ulquiorra." He said stiffly. Szayel set the x-rays down on the counter and pulled some rubber gloves out of the cabinet. "Shirt off."

Ulquiorra did as told and shuddered when Szayel put touched his abdomen just under the left side of his ribcage. His hands were cold.

"The pain is right here?" Szayel questioned, tapping the spot.

"Yes." Ulquiorra replied tautly.

"Does it hurt when you breathe?" Szayel inquired.

"Very much so." Ulquiorra squirmed, grimacing slightly. This wasn't his idea of fun.

With a weary sigh, Szayel pulled off the latex gloves and threw them over his shoulder, landing them in a trashcan. The diagnosis was simple—his spleen ruptured. Although a CT would be helpful, his symptoms matched up. Plus, time was a limiting factor. Too much blood loss would lead to complications and an avoidable blood transfusion.

"Ilforte will be here in a few minutes to prep you for the surgery." He said with a nod. "Stark and Grimmjow, stay here. Halibel, I'd like you to come with me…" Szayel picked the x-rays off the counter and beckoned Halibel to his side. Once outside the room, he handed the x-rays to Halibel.

"Take a look."

Halibel held them up to the light, and shook her head. The x-rays showed the lower leg bones—the tibia and fibula—broken in three places. One bone was threatening to pierce the skin.

"I see a spiral fracture, an oblique fracture, and a greenstick, along with the simple fracture of the fibula." She remarked, returning them to Szayel. "Surgery will be needed, no?"

"Perhaps. Not if I can set the oblique. But if I can't set it, then you are correct—surgery will be needed." Szayel said grimly, turning into quieter hallway and once again into a room where several beds were curtained off. It was very quiet.

"Whose are they?" Halibel asked curiously.

Szayel didn't reply and chuckled nervously. He pulled one of the curtains aside, revealing a bed on which Apache laid, half awake and too drugged up off of Vicodin to know what was going on. Mira Rose was sitting on a chair nearby, filing her nails, and Sun Sun was watching Apache very keenly.

"These x-rays are of Apache's left leg." Szayel said gravely.

Halibel stood there, letting it all sink it. She snatched the x-rays from Szayel's hand and looked at them once again, incredulous. Halibel blinked her green eyes a few times, shocked. Shaking her head, she noticed the Apache's leg, wrapped in a temporary bandage. How could this have happened?

"What happened, ladies?"She asked frostily.

"I swear, it wasn't me." Mira Rose said quickly. She never even looked up from her nails. "You know that guy Apache's been hanging around with?"

"Grimmjow?" Halibel questioned. For some odd reason, she could see the friendship working out. They were both annoying and loud, not to mention sporty and obsessed with certain TV shows.

"Yeah, him. Well, apparently, the two were bored. So they tried to act out a fight—Jack Bauer vs. Chuck Norris." Mira Rose rolled her eyes conspicuously and tossed her head of thick brown hair. "Stupid, right? Apparently, it got a little intense. Actually, it got really intense—Sun Sun and I were in the room. And um, yeah, that explains her busted up leg." She gesticulated toward Apache with her pink nail file.

"I wonder what made her think this was a good idea." Halibel said jadedly. Quietly, she ambled to Apache's bedside. Apache's pallor was a result of the intense pain from the break. Although Vicodin kept the pain at bay, it did not eliminate it completely. Apache was dozing off as a result of the medication, and she looked comfortable, nestled in the blankets. In a brief moment of sympathy, Halibel stroked Apache's shiny black hair and then patted her arm.

"You'll be fine, Apache." She said gently.

"Uh-huh." Apache murmured. She shifted slightly.

"Not gonna lie, I kind of feel bad for her." Mira Rose's face contorted. "Even though she's kind of a bitch."

"Mira Rose," Halibel said ominously.

"What? She is!"

"Don't talk to Miss Halibel like that." Sun Sun said sharply. Szayel smiled a little. It was interesting to see fraccion so respectful and protective of their Espada. Some weren't quite like that. Even more interesting were fraccion that listened to their Espada. Those were a true rarity.

"Technically, I'm a Mrs." Halibel corrected primly.

"I apologize, Mrs. Halibel." Sun Sun said, bowing slightly.

"It's no problem." Halibel said reassuringly.

"Man." Mira Rose scoffed, glaring at Apache. "That girl is such a poser."

"How so?" Halibel inquired

Mira Rose waved a hand. "Oh, you know. She always acts all tough like a man. But when she broke that thing, she started screaming like a banshee and crying. It was weird because she acts like she's queen of the world. Remember that, Sun Sun?"

Sun Sun nodded gravely. "I honestly thought she was possessed for a moment. It was when I noticed the odd form of her leg I knew something was wrong."

"But Grimmjow swept her off the floor and sprinted over here." Mira Rose looked up at the ceiling, smiling dreamily. "That was really sweet, actually. She was all clingy and stuff."

"Apache seems to have a thing for him." Sun Sun explained shortly. She smiled smugly and put a hand over her mouth. "But we weren't supposed to tell you, Mrs. Halibel."

"Ooh, girl, you are so bad!" Mira Rose giggled and shoved Sun Sun playfully. Halibel raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. And finally, she smiled slightly. It was cute, in a sense. No wonder Apache got all jittery when the topic of Grimmjow came up.

-

-

"Bam. Simple as that."

Ilforte tossed the syringe into the sharps box, satisfied with the potency of Valium. Ulquiorra had been subdued and a sedated all at once. Ulquiorra was in a mildly catatonic state, eyes half closed, oblivious to the cannula Ilforte was shoving into the vein on his hand. Stark and Grimmjow were more horrified with the fast acting Valium than the catheterization. Ulquiorra went from uncooperative patient to obedient little angel in five seconds—against his will, of course. He was quite a hassle otherwise. Ulquiorra didn't thrash around or verbally abuse people, he slapped Ilforte's hand away and even landed a blow to the gut when Ilforte came close. He kept murmuring, "No, no, get away from me—" until Ilforte landed a nice injection filled with Valium in Ulquiorra's arm—success!

"And there we go." Ilforte said with a nod. "See, this is why you can't fight against doctors."

"Uhh…right." Grimmjow laughed nervously.

"Well, let's scrub in." he turned to Lumina, who standing around next to him. "Take Ulquiorra to the OR."

"'Scuse me, if we say no, what will happen to us?" Grimmjow asked pointedly.

"Did you not see what just happened to Ulquiorra?" Ilforte smiled wryly. And that was the end of that. Once in the small, cold scrub room, Ilforte gave them all brief instructions.

"So, scrub with warm water up to your elbows _after _you put on the cap. Gowns are next. Masks and gloves come on last." He explained. "If you understood nothing I just said, watch me."

The soap was a yellowish color, thick and with strong scent. Grimmjow didn't like it at all, especially the fact he had to scrub all the way to his elbows. Stark didn't seem to care, nor did he spend too much time scrubbing, because he was tying on the green gown just as Ilforte was walking into the operating room.

"Dude, this is going to suck." Grimmjow told Stark, shaking his head. "What the hell's a spleen, anyway?"

"That's something to ask Szayel, not me." Stark said with a raised eyebrow. He tied the surgical mask dried off his hands. Following that, he pulled on the tight latex gloves. Stark flexed his fingers. He really hated how tight the gloves were. "Hey, hurry up. Szayel's probably already in there. And he's pissed because of what happened to Apache. By the way, mind explaining that to me?"

"Don't even go there." Grimmjow said darkly. He fumbled with the strings of his gown. "God, I can't even tie this piece of crap!"

"I'm already wearing the gloves, so I can't help you there. Hurry up. Just make it a ghetto knot or something."

"Fine." Grimmjow grumbled. Once he had a satisfactory knot, he pulled on the gloves with almost palpable reluctance and followed Stark into the cold and spacious operating room. The scene made Grimmjow cringe. Ulquiorra was intubated—the tube snaked out of the side of his mouth, connected to the respirator. He was limp with anesthesia. Szayel and Halibel were standing on Ulquiorra's left side, and Szayel was pointing at something on his abdomen. Nearby, on a wheeled table, was the instrument tray. Scalpels of various sizes, some even electric, were placed next to a long row of hemostats, scissors, and clamps. Other strange instruments glinted threateningly under the bright lights of the operating room.

"Oh, hello." Szayel said somewhat coldly. "Come around to Ulquiorra's other side. I'll explain what we're going to do."

Like robots, Stark and Grimmjow perambulated around the random pieces of equipment in the room to get to Ulquiorra's right side. Stark's blood ran cold when he saw the size of the incision that had been marked in pen. A good nine inches long, it went just around Ulquiorra's belly button and continued past it for about an inch and half.

"Holy shit!" Grimmjow exclaimed upon seeing it.

"Twenty three centimeters long. About nine inches or so." Szayel said with a nod. "Fascinating, isn't it?" He prodded it with the tip of the scalpel. It was then Stark noticed the scalpel's size and blade. It looked like something out of a horror movie.

"Not at all." Stark said, repulsed. "Also, why is his whole belly orange?"

"Oh, that's the Betadine, which is a disinfectant." Szayel replied with a wave of his hand. "Nothing to worry about."

"Okay. By the way, why is that incision so huge?" Stark asked once again.

"Well, the spleen in right here." Szayel pointed to an area several inches below Ulquiorra's ribcage, on his side. "Mainly because it's so swollen. I could do this laparascopically, but the blood would block my view. The incision has to be this size so I can suck out all the blood and tear it away from the other organs and ribcage. Anyway, let's start."

Grimmjow's heart began to pound as soon as Szayel sank the scalpel into Ulquiorra's skin. With much precision, he drew it further down, following the line. It glinted under the light. Szayel rounded the bellybutton finishing off the first incision, leaving a neat incision that shimmered with Ulquiorra's red blood.

"Okay." Szayel switched the scalpel to his left hand. "Halibel, get those retractors off the table."

Halibel pulled some metal objects off the table. They were bent at ninety degree angles.

"I want you to hold the incision open here, Stark…" Szayel pointed to the middle part of the incision. "And over here. Just across from it, but the other side, of course." Halibel handed the retractors to Stark, who nervously slipped them in.

"Alright. Now pull them aside."

And that was it. Ulquiorra's organs were completely exposed. It was a whole new world there—it looked like everything was moving at once, living. Toward the top of the incision, they could see the tip of Ulquiorra's heart beating in the pericardium. The reddish liver was sitting on the stomach, with the rough mustard colored pancreas tucked underneath. The intestines were coiled together and tightly under that. But the problem was very noticeable. The purple spleen, peeking out a few inches from under Ulquiorra's ribcage, was disfigured by splenomegaly, and had a tear in it. Blood was seeping from the tear, drenching the abdomen in crimson, sticky blood.

A sudden feeling of dread came over Stark. This was disgusting. Too disgusting. He looked up and Ulquiorra's serene face and back down to his guts when he found himself swallowing a qualm of nausea. It's just a little blood, Stark thought fervently. But his stomach thought otherwise.

As for Grimmjow, he stared at Ulquiorra's body cavity with wide eyes as the sweating began and his knees went weak. The room folded in and contracted around him with sickening speed. Szayel's commands were unintelligible now. Grimmjow's face and hands felt like they had been soaked in the Arctic Ocean.

"Are you with me, Grimmjow?" Szayel asked fiercely. "I want you to hand me the suction."

"Um, uh…" Grimmjow took a few shallow breaths. He tried to look down at the scalpels, but couldn't. He was far too nauseous and feeling weak. "I don't feel good."

"You'll be fine." Szayel muttered stiffly. "Now hand me the suction. It looks like a bendy straw."

"I can't do it." Grimmjow said through breaths, panicking. He hated Ulquiorra and all, but this was just unnerving—his whole body was open! He could see everything moving, shuddering like a beast was struggling to become free from his organs.

Szayel rolled his eyes and muttered something unpleasant. He held his hand out impatiently.

"Well, deal with it. Now's not the time to get squeamish. Suction." He ordered sharply.

Halibel handed him the suction quickly, throwing a disapproving look at Grimmjow.

Deftly, he sucked out some of the blood so he could see the abdominal aorta and the branches the led to the spleen. He'd need to clip the arteries off and then cut away the spleen from the ligament and surrounding organs. Hmm. He'd need someone to help him with that. Grimmjow looked pukey, so he was out of the question, and Stark was leaning away from the operating table, revolted and likely nauseated. Ulquiorra was under the knife, Ilforte was busy with the anesthesia. Apache was drugged up, asleep. Halibel was helpful, as always...

He prodded an artery branching off the abdominal aorta, the wide, thick artery than ran all the way down the abdomen. Halibel moved the stomach to the side slightly to have a better view of the crimson artery, branching horizontally off the aorta and draping itself among other organs.

"Here. The lienal or splenic artery. It's the main provider to the spleen." Szayel explained briefly. "We're going to clip the artery and then sever the spleen from it so it won't be bleeding so much. Hemostats."

Halibel handed him the long, scissor like instruments, in which a small, V-shaped clip was clamped. Deftly, he clipped the artery and then locked the hemostat on the same artery a few inches away. Szayel reached for the scalpel.

And then, there was a loud thud from somewhere in the room.

"Man down…"Stark said with a snicker. Grimmjow, out cold, was splayed out on the white tile of the operating room. He was so sickly pale that he almost blended with the tile and the surgical mask. The pained grimace on his face was noticeable even under the surgical mask, and the cold sweat on his brow was shining in the light.

Szayel sighed and looked over the operating table at Grimmjow. Apparently, the surgery was too much for him. Not even the motivational talk—lies, in this case—helped.

"Should I get him out of here?" Stark offered politely.

"No, no. Just leave him there." Szayel said with a wave of his hand. Stark and Halibel raised their eyebrows at Szayel but said nothing. Szayel picked something off the instrument tray and held it in his hand loosely, as if he were introducing the strange tool to them. Like most surgical instruments, it appeared to clamp or cut in some way—this one, judging by the serrated edges on one side, was to cut. One side, which fit into the serrated blade, was sharp and slightly curved. This instrument in particular resembled a small and thin pair of pliers with only one grip, yet they opened like Pacman™'s mouth.. Szayel held it the way one would a pencil, and he ran his thumb over a few small buttons on it.

"This," he said, "is a harmonic scalpel. As the name suggests, it is used to cut through tissue, namely, tissues that is inside the body, such as tonsils, lungs, and intestines. However, it vibrates extremely quickly, and will both cut tissue and coagulate blood vessels to stunt bleeding." An amused look came over his face. "It's very handy!"

Nobody said anything. Only Grimmjow would've made a stupid remark about the scalpel, but, to Szayel's relief he was out cold. With that, he pressed one of the buttons and snipped the lienal artery. Only a few drops of blood formed where it had been cut. From there, he skillfully cut a few other veins and arteries, all of which were considerably smaller than the lienal artery. Stark was morbidly fascinated by the fact that the process was almost bloodless. Repulsion had turned to fascination. He leaned closer and watched the scalpel tear through thin membranes. He was suddenly beginning to see the fascinating aspect of surgery.

Szayel hummed and set down the tools to feel around the spleen and under it, to see if it had been freed. When his finger touched a tough, slippery membrane, he plucked a tinier scalpel from the tray and cut away the membranes, freeing the spleen to the point where he was close to pulling it out. Now all that remained was the ligament, tucked very inconveniently well under Ulquiorra's ribcage. This was no problem, however. He slipped a finger under his ribs, feeling for a tough, sinewy structure. Once he found it, Szayel brought it out from under the ribcage with forceps, cutting the ligament with the harmonic scalpel and tucking the pale stub back under. Once again, there was very little blood. Stark tipped his head to the side, intrigued.

"It's a lot safer to cut stuff when you see it." He said pleasantly. "Otherwise, you can hit an artery or puncture a vital organ. Almost done!" And with that, he slashed through another translucent membrane that held the spleen in place. He tightened his grip on the spleen, pulled toward him, and then jerked it upward. The spleen was out of Ulquiorra's body and rested, shining with blood, in Szayel's hand. Stark was little bit unsettled by the way Szayel held it like a prize. The spleen was large—Szayel had to hold it with both hands. Upon catching his eye, Szayel smiled widely and dumped Ulquiorra's spleen into a container.

"Verona, take it to pathology. I want to examine it later." Szayel ordered. He turned back to Ulquiorra's open body.

"Okay!" he said energetically. "Now for the lavage."

"I assume the lavage is going to clean the blood from the abdominal cavity, correct?" Halibel said smartly. Lavages were done with warm saline water—the warmth was less traumatic to the internal organs, thus preventing any malfunctions. With superior antibiotic properties, the saline halted the growth of bacteria and cleaned out the abdominal cavity.

"That is correct." Szayel noticed that Halibel was quite intuitive. She was never making stupid remarks and was very keen of her surroundings.

Szayel now held an innocuous pen like object that was reminiscent of the tool a dentist would use to spray water into your mouth. But, of course, this one was much bigger, as was the suction. He was about to delve deeper into the opening when he stopped suddenly and held out the instruments to Halibel, who stared at them blankly for a moment before accepting them.

"You do it." Szayel said with a nod. "You deserve it." He took a firm hold on the retractor she held and observed Halibel's technique. Halibel was graceful, careful—she was always cautious when poking around and behind the organs. However, she had been effective—the suction tube carried sanguine water, and about five minutes later, the water ran clear. Once Halibel deemed it clean, she removed the tube. Thank God-- the slurping and squelching was bothering Stark.

"And there you have it. Splenectomy. Good work, everyone." Szayel said congenially. With that, he picked another odd instrument off the tray. It looked suspiciously like a staple gun, and it probably was. Stark took a step back from the operating table, shuddering. Why office supplies were in an operating room, he had no idea.

Szayel chattered away pleasantly, borderline rambling, as he stapled the incision closed. He talked about laws of physics, dangerous chemicals, and even mentioned his hunger for tacos. Stark couldn't see how anyone would feel hungry after performing a particularly graphic surgery—he felt he wouldn't be able to eat for at least a day, if not more.

"Hey, Szayel," Halibel asked as she washed her hands. "What are you going to do about Grimmjow?"

"Oh, Grimmjow?" Szayel muttered distractedly. "I'll let Ilforte deal with him."

And then, Grimmjow appeared in the doorway, leaning on it for support. Apparently, he had woken up to Ilforte prodding him with the scalpel. Grimmjow was shaking and wan, but still managed to throw a murderous, unnerving look at Szayel and still look scary.

"Y-You," he said hoarsely, left eye twitching. "I am going to kill you someday." He meant it. Grimmjow was not a happy camper.

Szayel stifled a mirthless laugh and shook his head. He was unfazed by Grimmjow's threat.

"Continue like that," Szayel said mockingly, wagging a finger at him, "and I'd easily subdue you with pictures of an autopsy."

Grimmjow turned a sickly green color and stomped out of the room, massaging the back of his head.

Szayel was surprised he actually knew what an autopsy was.

-

-

When Ulquiorra cracked an eye open, he couldn't see straight, and immediately remembered he was under the influence of a crapload of drugs. Thoughts were jumbled together in his mind, including an extremely frivolous one—_is this what people feel like after using hard drugs?_ And he pondered that question until his consciousness began to faded in and out of each other, and Szayel was at his bedside, blocking the others from view. Ulquiorra didn't bother wondering why Szayel was there. But Ulquiorra didn't care. He closed his eyes and shifted slightly, only to be reminded of the surgery when he felt a slight pull down the better part of his abdomen. Ulquiorra winced. Was that the actual size of the incision? It was massive. All in all, Ulquiorra was in a bad mood and he had just woken up to bothersome pain and the oncoming nausea. Ulquiorra sighed and opened his eyes reluctantly, blinking a few times to clear them.

"Oh, Szayel." Stark said. "Ulquiorra's awake."

"Ah, perfect." Szayel's smiling face materialized above Ulquiorra. "How are you feeling?"

"Do I have to answer?" Ulquiorra said faintly. He found it difficult to speak over a whisper.

"Are you in pain?" the snide comment had gone right over Szayel's head. That, or he really didn't care. Probably the latter.

"Yes…" Ulquiorra whispered. In addition to pain, he found himself a bit nauseous—more than he would've liked. In fact, he was feeling quite queasy.

"Morphine is on its way." Szayel said reassuringly. Even so, he was frowning slightly. That odd color to Ulquiorra's face was a bit foreboding—it would be minutes until Ulquiorra announced imminent illness. And if it weren't for his evident queasiness, Szayel would already be explaining to him all the consequences and special cautions to take after the splenectomy. But he decided to do that later, seeing Ulquiorra was in no condition to comprehend anything.

"Ugh." Ulquiorra weakly wiped his sweating brow and closed his eyes. He was not feeling well at all. "Can you all…leave?"

"Hell yes—bye!" Grimmjow jumped up from his seat and ran out of the room without a glance back. Ulquiorra was pleased to see that he was pressing a large icepack to the back of his head. Stark pulled Halibel up from the chair and smiled at Ulquiorra sympathetically.

"Get well soon, Ulquiorra." Halibel said gently. Stark and Halibel left hand in hand, leaving Szayel and Ulquiorra alone. Szayel was studying him as he would study a new specimen. His sharp orange eyes moved over his face for a while, until he came to a conclusion.

"The nausea should pass…" Szayel said with a scowl. "But it's nothing to worry about—the combination of a splenectomy—a traumatic procedure—and the normal side effects of anesthesia can be quite unpleasant."

"I noticed." Ulquiorra murmured.

"Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call me." Szayel smiled at him briefly before leaving the room.

Ulquiorra leaned back into the bed, fingering the sheets. About thirty minutes later, his nausea had dissipated, leaving him sleepy, bored, and hungry. It was then he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Sitting on the bedside table was a thick tome, bound in a majestic blue color. Because it was book, it was entertainment—Ulquiorra liked reading. But he didn't know what it was, as the massive book was unmarked. Laboriously, he managed to settle the book in his lab. The stretch tugged at his staples, leaving him with a tickling feeling down the incision. Ulquiorra brushed the frivolity aside and let the book fall open to a random page.

His nausea returned immediately upon looking at the gory, graphic picture on the page. He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. He should've known—_of course_ it would be a detailed anatomy book; he was in Szayel's lab. Of course it would conveniently open to a nasty picture of a torso, muscles cut away in neat layers, organs completely exposed. Slamming the book shut, Ulquiorra vowed to never touch anything in Szayel's lab again and retreated under the sheets, in a cold sweat.

And his nausea did not improve when a beaming Szayel showed up with his spleen in a container.

* * *

Got back from a debate competition. Going to Nationals '09; Rock the Mock.

Hope you liked this chapter. It was quite fun to write. Poor Ulquiorra...splenectomies are not only traumatic to the rest of the bodily organs, but take a toll on the immune system as well, though not permanently-- I'll explain in two chapters or so.

Review? :)


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Eating is Misleading

* * *

It was with quite a flourish that Grimmjow threw the peppers into the simmering stew. He tossed in a pinch of salt and watched, contently, as his gourmet concoction bubbled pleasantly. It was beautiful—the color was a warm orange, the smell made his mouth water. But he had to wait until it was done, otherwise it would be no good. Grimmjow had suddenly taken interest in the art of cuisine (a euphemism for avoiding Ulquiorra's crappy meals when it was his kitchen duty) so that he'd have something to eat in case dinner duty was assigned to Ulquiorra. Or Szayel, since when Szayel had dinner duty he either forgot, was busy, or just didn't do it, leaving nine others hungry and irritated. Not that it mattered to him, of course. "Science first!"—Szayel had used that phrase an overwhelming amount of times, to the point where it was recited by others every time they saw Szayel. And to the point where Noitora had perfected the imitation of Szayel saying that—saccharine smile, cold eyes, and a slight wag of the finger to his right, and the quintessential, condescending inclination of the head to his right, with an airy "Science first!". Either way, Grimmjow believed himself to be a top notch cook, and Stark agreed. But he did add way too much salt.

"What is that?" Stark asked, strolling into the kitchen. He was crutch free and had been for about three and a half months—it was early August now, but he was still in rehab…and would be for a while. Even so, he was able to do normal people activities now. Like running—but he didn't do that voluntarily.

"It smells good." Halibel said thoughtfully. As for Halibel, her morning sickness and general moodiness had disappeared. This meant more sleep for Stark. People no longer had to clear the hallways when she came stomping down them. However, they still did that out of respect. But her belly was pretty big—five months along already.

"I know, right?" Grimmjow said with a smirk. He was incredibly proud of himself, and it showed. He seemed to glow in the kitchen's lights. "It's the most magical thing ever."

"Uh-huh…" Stark raised an eyebrow and sat down. It was warm evening in early August, one of those evenings that made you feel like going outside and sleeping under the stars. But because the espada had killjoy tendencies, no one was enjoying the setting sun or the nice breeze. Noitora was having sex somewhere while Aizen, Tousen, and Gin were on an 'escapade' to the Greek Islands, and then Paris. Ulquiorra was sulking in his room or the library, and Szayel was loitering around the entrance of his lab waiting for someone to come in so he could yell at them and blame his lack of concentration on them. He had been increasingly touchy the past few days. To the point where looking at him made him mad. Apparently, science first meant screw food, water, and mental sanity. And knowing Szayel that was the case. Nobody knew why, nor did they want to know why. But everyone held their breath when the scientist walked into the kitchen right then, ghost-like. No one dared to look at him, much less talk to him in fear of setting him off.

"Did somebody die or something? Dear God." Szayel said loudly. He glared at them over the rims of his glasses. His gaze lingered on Grimmjow, who was mixing his concoction furiously. "Don't do something stupid. I'm not fixing you up."

"Dude, I'm just cooking—" Grimmjow began defensively. Any implications, any suggestions that his cooking was imperfect miffed him.

"Well, guess what? The kitchen is a perfect place to get injured!" Szayel snapped. "And what is that _smell_?"

"It's my stew." Grimmjow said candidly. "Duh."

Szayel made a face but said nothing. He folded his arms across his chest and sighed, sinking into a seat.

"You're a little pissed off." Stark said with a frown, walking over to Szayel cautiously. "What's wrong with you?"

"Pissed off? Please. Stop exaggerating." Szayel snorted. "Actually, that's an understatement. I could kill someone right now."

"See? Acceptance is the first step to…uhh…yeah." Stark scratched his head nervously when he remembered Szayel's last statement. "I'm no psychologist, but um, want to tell us what's making you mad?"

Szayel looked at him warily for a long time. Stark didn't like the way his yellow eyes drilled into his soul…or so it seemed. Szayel was known for his intense glares the same way Ulquiorra was known for his blank, melancholic stare. Finally, Szayel shrugged.

"Sure." Szayel said. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, peering at them in a contemplative manner. Szayel cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses reflexively. "Actually, I don't think you'd like to hear it…" he allowed a little grin, almost shy. "It's not something that'll get your appetite going. And it's top secret."

"Oh. Yeah, then just don't tell us about it." Stark said, blenching. He really didn't want to know what Szayel was planning, but he hoped to God it didn't involve anyone else.

"Want some stew?" Grimmjow asked, glancing at Szayel. He pulled a bowl from a cabinet and slopped some of it in there, tossing a spoon in and walking over to the table.

"No…" Szayel said hesitantly. Quite frankly, he didn't trust Grimmjow's cooking skills. Szayel was always wary of food that he didn't cook, for some reason. It was an idiosyncrasy of his, but it had saved him from Ulquiorra's Crappy Meals™ several times. Ulquiorra's Crappy Meals™ were half assed culinary dishes. It wasn't very rare for him to go to the Real World and buy some cheap TV dinners for everyone. And then, he'd get all defensive and claim he cooked it. One time, Ulquiorra served them chips for dinner. Chips. Another time, he made a 'soup' (lukewarm water with salt and pepper). No matter how much the rest of the Espada pleaded Aizen to ban Ulquiorra from kitchen duty, he always said the same thing—"You are brothers and sisters. Taking turns is essential to bonding."

And they sure as hell weren't brothers and sisters. Maybe in Aizen's eyes, but not theirs.

"How about you guys? Want some of Grimmjow's Super Freaking Awesome Stew?" Grimmjow asked, turning to Stark and Halibel.

"We already ate." Stark said.

"Thanks anyway." Halibel added.

"Eh. Suit yourselves." Grimmjow muttered. With much gusto, he shoved the spoon into his mouth and hummed pleasantly. Plumes of steam swirled above his bowl, which Stark watched in a surprisingly mesmerized fashion. The room was silent. The only sounds were Grimmjow's spoon clinking against the bowl and Szayel browsing an outdated Walmart catalog. Stark and Halibel were making light and pleasant conversation at the end of the table, occasionally chuckling about an inside joke.

"Remind me—" Szayel looked up from his catalog. "Have you guys had your yearly vaccinations yet?"

"O-Of course!" Grimmjow, shaken up by Szayel's question, dropped his spoon in his stew and nodded quickly. His knee banged the table. "Yeah. We've…uh, um…had them. Yeah. For sure." Grimmjow laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair.

Szayel's eyebrows quirked downward reproachfully.

"I guess the records will tell the truth since there are_ pansies that can't stand shots in the area_." Szayel said through gritted teeth, rolling up the catalog threateningly. He glowered at Grimmjow.

"N-No. That's not the problem." Grimmjow said under his breath. "We had them, I promise!"

"Because we all know you just love coming to my lab." Szayel said sarcastically. "I'll check the records. I think you're due for a tetanus."

"Oh, tetanus." Stark said in a grave tone of voice. "That's the disease where you get rashes and blisters all over your body and then your teeth fall out, right?"

Szayel raised his eyebrows at him expectantly. Stark was beginning to feel uncomfortable—Szayel was staring at him.

"No. Not even close. You're thinking of a combo of measles, smallpox, and a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick." Szayel explained shortly. "And that doesn't exist because no one is retarded enough to comprehend it." Szayel finished his explanation with a scathing comment. He tossed his hair and left the room, leaving everyone else confused.

"I hate Szayel sometimes, not going to lie." Stark said, shaking his head. He could be as moody as a teenage girl sometimes. No, moodier.

"Agreed. Well, I'm going to go catch SNL with the guys." Grimmjow was referring to Noitora, Ilforte, and Tesla. "So…I'll see you guys later." Grimmjow waved tersely and left the kitchen.

-

-

Although Saturday Night Live had proven to be hilarious, Grimmjow was not having such a great time at the moment. He lay in bed, knees tucked up to his chest, watching the red numbers on his clock, sweating and groaning occasionally. It was two in the morning, and he didn't feel good. No, quite the opposite. His stomach felt like it was being squeezed by a hand with talons. Nausea can in massive waves over him every few minutes, to the point where he'd almost have to run to his bathroom. His heart was pounding, and everything sounded like it was underwater. Sweats and chills came intermittently. In fact, Grimmjow was convinced that he was dying a grisly death. What God would torture with such intense waves of nausea and a stomach that was threatening to explode?

"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it." He said under his breath. Grimmjow's mind was so fuzzy from the nausea and oncoming headache that he didn't know what to do—get a sip of water, eat, take a painkiller? There was no way he'd be able to sleep. And then, a new feeling arose in his stomach—it was beginning to clench he tasted something sweet in his mouth. Grimmjow threw the covers off of him and made a mad dash to the bathroom when he tasted dinner…again.

-

-

Ulquiorra was trudging along the halls of Las Noches sleepily, rubbing his eyes. It was already nine in the morning, but he found himself tired and antagonistic although most of Las Noches was already awake. He was mono-free, as well as spleen free now.

It was a ridiculously hot and sunny August day, one that would definitely cause flocks of Arrancar to get a tan (or sunburn) and play 'beach' volleyball, although the only source of water were the bathtubs and some hot tub Aizen had built that everyone was reluctant to use. And for a good reason, too…either way, Ulquiorra did not want to face another day. What a surprise.

Like most mornings, he was a bit queasy from having woken up five minutes ago, but he knew it would pass in about half an hour. What better way to pass the time than to read a book? And he was headed straight for the library, with a rather heavy and morose book in mind…but upon turning into the library, he found himself face to face with someone he didn't expect.

And he couldn't stop scathing question from spewing out of his mouth.

"What are you doing here?" Ulquiorra demanded, recoiling when he saw Noitora lounging on none other than Ulquiorra's couch.

"What's up? I'm trying to find some art books so I can get some old fashioned porn." Noitora replied casually, flipping through a thick book. He didn't appear to be interested in the words, however.

"Disgusting." Ulquiorra said. He suddenly didn't want to read anymore…and his queasiness was borderline nausea. "Can't you do that somewhere else?"

"Nah. I'm bored. Grimmjow's room is locked and has been for two days. I texted him, facebooked him, banged on the door, etcetera. No reply." Noitora said. He didn't seem too concerned. "Probably with a hangover."

Ulquiorra didn't reply. Hopefully, Grimmjow would be like that for the whole day. He wanted peace and quiet for once. Would he get that? Probably not. Grimmjow would likely pop out of his room mid afternoon screaming "Whaddup, bitches?" and then blasting holes in walls because he was too lazy to use the door. Little did Ulquiorra know that that would not be the case.

Ulquiorra left the library in a huff, bothered that his sanctuary had been infiltrated by Noitora, the king of tools. Ulquiorra thought his day couldn't get any worse when he saw Grimmjow in the hallway. But he wasn't swaggering, nor was he strutting. Grimmjow was leaning heavily against the wall, dragging himself along. Ulquiorra disapproved of the non uniform clothing—plaid pajama pants and some shirt, and was about to call him out on it when he noticed there was something definitely wrong with him.

Grimmjow was white, the same shade of white that indicated a fainting episode. He was breathing heavily, almost clinging to the wall.

"Grimmjow?" Ulquiorra came closer warily. "What is wrong with you?"

"Dunno." Grimmjow said breathlessly. "Do you know how to cure the…the fainting feeling, you know, the lightheaded dizziness crap?"

Ulquiorra shook his head numbly. He had never fainted before (had gotten fairly close once) and that was a question to ask Szayel. His lab was just down the hallway. Grimmjow was presumably heading toward it, but he wasn't going to last if he continued like this. Any second now, Grimmjow would faint. It was unnerving.

"I'm getting Szayel." Ulquiorra said, turning on his heel.

"No! I'm hungry…I was going to the kitchen."

"I won't let you. You're going to Szayel." Ulquiorra reluctantly held out a hand to Grimmjow, who accepted it. Ulquiorra pulled him up and yanked his hand out of Grimmjow's, wiping it on his hakama rather conspicuously. He hated touching people. But if Aizen found out that he left Grimmjow there, Aizen would surely have a fit, as he was into this 'brothers and sisters' crap. Once Ulquiorra pulled him up, Grimmjow swayed on the spot, and that was when Ulquiorra took initiative, grabbed a fistful of Grimmjow's shirt, and towed Grimmjow along. He sure as hell wasn't going to touch Grimmjow himself. Whatever disease he had seemed ungodly. Ulquiorra kicked the door to Szayel's lab open. But Szayel was not in the foyer, or anywhere in the area. And it was pointless to walk the whole lab. Luckily, Ilforte was walking by, ordering some of Szayel's fraccion around nonchalantly.

"Then, set him on fire…oh." He caught sight of Ulquiorra, but his eyes lingered on Grimmjow. "I take it you're looking for Szayel?"

"What gave it away?" Ulquiorra said coldly. Grimmjow was sinking to the ground.

"The fact that fool is going to pass out or throw up. Szayel is doing some chem work right now, so go that way—" Ilforte pointed to a long, wide hallway just behind the reception desk. "Make a right when you see a sign that says Do Not Enter. Szayel should be in the first room on the left."

Ulquiorra dragged Grimmjow along, picking up the pace. Like the hallway he hated most, with all the medical things, this one was cold, smelled funny, and had fraccion running up and down with folders and flasks of all shapes and sizes. After two minutes or so, there was a sign that said in large white letters "DO NOT ENTER" right next to a heavy, thick pressurized metal door. Ulquiorra opened the door and was a bit bothered by its weight, but managed to drag Grimmjow into a small room in which shelves of flasks and other liquids were contained. Veering left, Ulquiorra walked into the room that Ilforte had told him to go into, where they found Szayel immediately.

Szayel was up to his elbows in tight black rubber gloves that looked so thick Ulquiorra wondered how he could even move his fingers. He wore a white lab coat that appeared to be made of thick material. It was buttoned along the left side of his torso, and he held a rather small vial of a smoking liquid. There was a mask over his face and he was studying it curiously. A Bunsen burner had something on fire—purple fire—but seeing that Szayel wasn't reacting to it, it was not a cause for alarm.

"Careful!" he warned, catching sight of Ulquiorra and Grimmjow. "Liquid diamonds give off toxic fumes. Stand back."

They did as told and watched as Szayel dumped the diamonds in another flask, putting it under another Bunsen burner and shooing them out of the room as he peeled his thick black gloves off.

"What is it?" he asked as he unbuttoned his lab coat. He glanced at the two, eyes lingering on the wan and grimacing Grimmjow. "Hopefully nothing too bad…" he shot one more wary look at them before marking something on a paper nearby.

"Dude. I haven't drunk water in two and half days." Grimmjow said bleakly. He cringed as another pang of pain exploded in his abdomen. Ulquiorra noticed and took a step away from him. Well, he could've gone farther if Grimmjow wasn't leaning heavily on him.

"And why is that?" Szayel asked aloofly. Quite frankly, he wasn't in the mood to deal with others. He tapped his pen against his chin, murmured something, and wrote something else.

"Uh, yeah, I haven't gone an hour without puking, so you tell me." Grimmjow said, distinctly offended.

Szayel frowned and studied him for a moment. He found the pallor of his face and his chapped lips to be a little disconcerting, along with the lack of shine in his eyes. He looked like he hadn't showered in days, and he probably hadn't. Szayel placed the back of his hand against Grimmjow's forehead, assessing his temperature.

"I'm putting you at one hundred point one." Szayel muttered. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, you know the drill. Follow me."

"Ah…Szayel? Grimmjow can't walk right now." Ulquiorra said stiff, begrudging tone. He was beginning to get antsy by being so close to Grimmjow. It made him feel violated. Szayel looked over at Grimmjow and beckoned one of his fraccion over. He muttered something, and his fraccion took off to who knows where.

"What happened to you, Grimmjow? How are you feeling?" Szayel inquired, pointing to a chair nearby. Szayel was leaning against a counter in a casual fashion, studying Grimmjow from head to toe. Grimmjow's white face and trembling hands, not to mention the cold sweat on his forehead, was a clear sign of illness.

"I have no clue, but I feel like shit." Grimmjow replied. He fidgeted and sighed. He pouted a little and asked, "Can I lay down?"

"No. And 'like shit' does not tell me enough." Szayel said testily. Either way, Grimmjow rested his head against the cold counter, closing his eyes. But that did not shut out the dizzy feeling.

"My stomach is killing me…" Grimmjow moaned, shifting once again. "And throwing up is my new hobby."

Szayel raised an eyebrow and murmured "Uh-huh…". He suspected a common stomach virus, and Grimmjow was probably exaggerating his symptoms because, well, Grimmjow was Grimmjow and nobody could do anything about that. Along with that, Szayel was dying to send him back to his room to get some rest. He had important things to do and wasn't going to spend time with common illnesses that weren't an emergency.

"Well, anything else?" Szayel asked.

"I have these crazy stomach cramps. Lots of puking. I can't even drink things anymore. Lightheaded, my vision's all shiny and blurry…I'm going…to faint…"

It was Grimmjow's last sentence that piqued Szayel's interest and concern. Lightheadedness was a sign of the latter stages of dehydration, and because Grimmjow was restricted from eating or drinking due to stomach instability, he wouldn't be drinking anytime soon. He had lost plenty of fluids because puking was apparently his new hobby. That, and dehydration was very serious. Whatever Grimmjow had had to be treated immediately. Grimmjow was grayish in the face now, and he looked very ill.

"Hmm. I was going to send you back to your room. However, because you're so lightheaded, I'm going run some tests on you. Stand up."

"I can't." Grimmjow moaned.

"Grimmjow. I have a gurney waiting outside, and I'm aware that you're extremely weak right now." Szayel said with a small smile. Grimmjow gave another loud moan and stood up tremulously, clinging to Szayel as he led him out to the gurney. Ulquiorra shuddered. Grimmjow's germs were all over Szayel now, but Szayel didn't appear to mind a near puking Grimmjow clinging to his arm. Szayel pushed him—gently, of course—onto the gurney looked down at Grimmjow. He beckoned Ulquiorra over with a jerk of his head, and Ulquiorra, with no choice but to follow, sighed deeply. Unfortunately, Szayel was pushing the gurney hastily (his fraccion were jumping out of the way as he barreled down the hallway), talking to Grimmjow.

"I suspect you're dehydrated. I can do a blood test if you can handle it." Szayel knew what the answer would be. However, the blood test would reveal his extent of dehydration and would pinpoint the cause of his illness. It would also indicate the lack of sodium in his blood, which was necessary to keep the heart healthy and beating.

"No—_No. _No, no, and _no._" Grimmjow said firmly, shaking his head. "Never. Hey…c-can you slow down a bit?"

"I can, but I won't. I need you conscious when I get to the exam room." Szayel chuckled at his little joke.

"But I'm about to puke!" Grimmjow protested, fidgeting. He wiped his sweating brow.

"That's fine." Szayel said firmly, moving faster. It was then Ulquiorra decided to back Szayel up with the blood test, simply because he wanted to know what illness he would get from touching Grimmjow's shirt. He also wanted Grimmjow to have it done out of spite, hehe.

"I assume you know you're going against medical advice by not allowing the blood test?" Ulquiorra pointed out frankly.

"See if I care." Grimmjow replied. He groaned and pressed a hand to his mouth, staring at Szayel bleakly. Szayel made a sharp right into the medical hallway, glancing at Grimmjow.

"Grimmjow…" Szayel sighed jadedly. "You're not even going to feel it. It takes five seconds to fill a small vial."

"C-Can't you…can't you just not do it?" His breathing was fast and shallow, and Szayel knew his Avoid Fainting Mechanism was kicking into maximum overdrive. But it wasn't going to work.

"Well…" Szayel wheeled him into a medium sized room with three other gurneys and then made a beeline for the cabinet nearby. "I could prick your finger, but the test results might be less accurate than I'd like them to be. And I can also heal you faster if I know what's in your blood." That was a lie. If it was a virus, there was nothing Szayel could do, really. He could just alleviate the symptoms, but curing a virus is generally impossible. Not that Grimmjow would know the difference.

"Just don't take my blood…" Grimmjow moaned.

Szayel nodded, but didn't hide the scowl.

"Very well then," he murmured. Szayel wanted to make sure Grimmjow's symptoms matched up to what he suspected was causing the problem. Szayel suspected a virus, but the most precise diagnosis would really help. Of course, if he could get a sample of blood, Grimmjow would already under treatment. It bothered him. Szayel took his stethoscope out of his pocket and listened to Grimmjow heart, beating slowly and weakly. His breathing was shallow. Grimmjow was trying to push Szayel away, moaning about how cold the stethoscope was and how much his stomach hurt when he suddenly stopped trying to push Szayel away. With a small sigh, Grimmjow fainted…finally. He had held out for a while.

"Ah, damn it." Szayel muttered. "The blood test will have to wait." And Szayel got to work with the cardiac monitor and pulse. Grimmjow had a pulse, but it was weak, and the oxygen saturation was below ninety. Oxygen levels should be between ninety five and one hundred. Szayel was already assembling needles for an IV, and Ulquiorra was getting more and more nervous. He hated needles. He stole glance at Szayel, who was guiding a cannula deep into a vein on the inside of Grimmjow's arm. It wasn't the usual place on the hand, which was why it was slightly more disgusting. Szayel finished and flipped the stopcock on the IV tube. In rapid succession, Szayel administered some anti emetics (anti nausea meds), sodium to keep his heart going, and some vitamins and minerals. Grimmjow would likely wake up soon.

"Why don't you just get the blood sample now?" Ulquiorra asked petulantly.

"Oh." Szayel smirked. "Well, his blood pressure is too low right now. And it's going against the patient's will."

"Since when do you care?" Ulquiorra said dryly. Szayel forced him into the tonsillectomy—against his will. And Szayel had forced a bunch of surgeries and tests on people. Ulquiorra glanced at the drawer right next to him, partially open, revealing tiny vials and needles. He resisted a shudder. One thing was for sure, he'd have to look away while Szayel got Grimmjow's blood…if he did.

But then, Szayel had an epiphany.

"Tourniquets." Szayel said thoughtfully. He had forgotten about them since he rarely used them. Arrancar, as super humans, tended to have larger, wider blood vessels well suited to the strong heart they had. Therefore, finding a good vein to puncture was a cinch, usually because it was bulging and Szayel could feel the blood pulsating rhythmically under the tips of his fingers. Grimmjow's blood pressure was low. But the tourniquet would raise the blood pressure and saturation in his arm, just enough to get a good draw. Szayel snickered as he waltzed to the drawer.

"Ah, I love the lawlessness of Hueco Mundo." Szayel said cheerfully. "I can go against patient's wishes and do whatever I want!"

Ulquiorra had to agree. Laws were optional in Hueco Mundo, especially in Las Noches. That explained several of the random pillars outside that were blown up (most of them by Grimmjow) and not even repaired. Technically, Szayel could do whatever he wanted. Damn it.

"That blood sample is _mine._" Szayel snickered and pulled the drawer open, inspecting the vials. He secretly liked drawing blood. It was quick, easy. And it was also a cheap thrill. But that was only when you got to shove a needle into someone's vein. It was boring when it involved pricking a finger and squeezing it until the blood filled a miniscule vial. That was lame.

With a flourish, Szayel tied the blue tourniquet tautly in the middle of Grimmjow's upper right arm. Szayel pulled on some gloves and swabbed the inside of Grimmjow's elbow—the antecubital fossa. With his index and middle fingers, he prodded one of Grimmjow's bulging veins. Because Grimmjow had become an exercise freak, his veins had grown and become bulgy to support stronger blood flow. His veins were perfect for venipuncture. So wide and thick and strong that Szayel even voiced his thoughts—"Great veins, great veins."

Ulquiorra was hovering closer to the door, waiting until he could pull a Noitora and escape while he could. It was an exhibition of cowardice, but cowardice was better than watching the vial fill with dark blood…Ulquiorra shuddered deeply.

Ulquiorra looked at the ceiling as soon as the needle was in. He felt a bit cold suddenly, and he could see the vial filling up with dark blood out of the corner of his eye. Dear Lord. Make it stop. The needle was almost parallel to Grimmjow's skin, which made it seem more humane. But not humane enough. It was revolting nonetheless. Ulquiorra was feeling blood drain from his face.

Seconds later, Szayel had sent the blood with Lumina to be tested while he idly pressed a gauze to the puncture, pressing a band aid over it firmly. Something about the smirk on his face suggested he was very proud of himself for doing a painless, perfect venipuncture, though it was only painless because Grimmjow was out cold. He patted Grimmjow's shoulder out of habit. The color had not yet returned to his face, but his oxygen saturation was up to ninety two, and his heart rate had risen to a decent sixty one as opposed to the fifty six it was previously.

Minutes later, Lumina returned, depositing a stack of papers in Szayel's hand. The blood test results. Szayel perused the results, scowling.

"Low sodium, protein, oxygen, and red blood cell count. High phosphorus levels and many other toxins due to dehydration. And, my final diagnosis is norovirus—I can see the virus particles in the picture Lumina included for me." Szayel sighed with relief. "Grimmjow should be just fine."

Ulquiorra had hoped for the opposite, but whatever. Grimmjow had begun to stir, squirming. He was still sheet white and had the telltale miserable look of one with an illness, but he looked slightly better than before.

"One more thing, Ulquiorra…" Szayel dropped his voice. "Don't tell Grimmjow about the blood test."

"Fine." Ulquiorra said dryly. But he couldn't keep that promise. If Grimmjow pissed him off, Ulquiorra would tell him everything that happened. And something about the way Szayel was looking at him gave Ulquiorra the impression that Szayel knew his intentions. "But in return you must tell me if I am going to get norovirus from him." Ulquiorra looked at Grimmjow, lip curling.

Szayel found the nature of the question to be…odd…but answered it as truthfully as he could, even though it wasn't what Ulquiorra wanted to hear.

"It's possible for both of us to get it, as norovirus is highly contagious and spreads like wildfire—pardon the cliché." Szayel said tactfully. "I cannot determine whether or whether not you'll get it. But, I'm fairly sure that Grimmjow contracted it from the muck he was eating for dinner the other day—he must have undercooked something."

Ulquiorra narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Lies. Szayel was just withholding information. Ulquiorra left wordlessly, carrying norovirus with him and out to the rest of Las Noches.

Grimmjow cracked an eye open minutes later, wincing under the bright lights of the room. He had a vague memory of the chain of events that put him there, but not much. Grimmjow felt nauseous, stricken with malaise, but other than that, it was nice to see straight again. Szayel was nowhere to be seen. He promptly walked into the room just as Grimmjow was relishing the Szayel-free atmosphere.

"You're awake—excellent. How are you feeling?" Szayel asked, moseying over to Grimmjow's bedside.

"Like shit…still." Grimmjow murmured weakly. "Did I pass out or something?"

"Yes…syncope." Szayel saw the confused look on Grimmjow's face. "It's the medical term for fainting."

"I should've known." Grimmjow said sullenly. Medical terms made sense to Szayel and only Szayel. He could probably tell Grimmjow the etymology of the word, if he asked for it. And Grimmjow wasn't dumb enough to do that.

"You fainted due to dehydration. Toxins had built up in your body and the lack of food and water lowered your heart rate and blood pressure. As a result, you fainted because of lack of oxygen to your brain." Szayel explained congenially. "And the dehydration was caused by your symptoms. The root of your symptoms and problems is norovirus, a highly contagious virus that can be contracted by eating contaminated food." And making contact with those who have the virus—but that surely wasn't the case with Grimmjow.

"Are you saying that I can't cook?" Grimmjow asked as fiercely as he could—he was still groggy and nauseous.

"As a matter of fact, yes." Szayel said loftily. "That weird dish you were eating the other day contained meat and vegetables. They were probably undercooked, and the virus happened to be on them."

"Damn it." Grimmjow grunted. That was another thing he failed at, apparently. But hey, his dishes tasted pretty good!

"I'm keeping you under observation until six. It's ten fifteen now." Szayel said with a nod. "Just relax, get some rest, and if you'd like, you can try eating and drinking. If you can't, the IV will suffice. I must say, you have a pretty nasty bout."

Grimmjow looked down at his arm. He made a face. Ew, IVs were gross.

Szayel decided to leave Grimmjow in peace and moved on to the nuclear facility in his lab, where he fooled around with some nukes and testing a few nuclear elements. It was all fun and dandy until Szayel started to feel strange that night. Unconcerned, he brushed it aside and went to bed, only to wake up the next morning with a fever and stomach cramps that made him gasp and moan in agony.

And Ulquiorra did not even bother seeing Szayel when he found himself tortured by spells of nausea and unpredictable stomach cramps…that, and he found himself sleeping next to the toilet, bound in blankets and fearfully awaiting the next attack of roiling queasiness. He felt so lonely, like he was the only person in Las Noches with such symptoms. Not so—Ulquiorra was just dramatic, in his own silent way. Norovirus had spread to the farthest corners of Las Noches four days later. And who could do something about it? Nobody. (Though Halibel avoided the virus by locking herself in Las Noches' top floor) Szayel didn't dare leave his room, much less treat others while he was sick. In retrospect, it was the most responsible thing to do.

Eventually, it all passed, and things were back to normal nine or ten days later. The funny thing was it could have been avoided if Grimmjow actually cooked his food thoroughly. That's right—none of the inhabitants of Las Noches would've caught the virus. But no. Luckily, Aizen had missed the epidemic. He returned to a clean Las Noches liberated of the hellish virus two weeks after that day, the day Grimmjow passed out. But the virus hid into the recesses of Las Noches, and simply because viruses are tough, it would strike again. When? Nobody knew.

* * *

A really epic chapter is coming up. I believe it's chapter sixteen...

Anyway, I hope you liked it. There's much more to come!


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: E_vac_uate

* * *

The dog days of the summer brought about sunburns, complaints, and general apathy. Summer was great. Nobody would deny the pleasure of infrared heat warming and tanning a body out on the sand of Hueco Mundo. Nobody had a problem with the sparse clothing, bikinis, and short shorts. But now they were getting sick of the sun, the sweating, the heat. It was tiring, even though they had loved it at first, when Szayel had tinkered with Aaroniero's blue-sky machine to make seasons. Now it was just plain tiring—the sweltering heat was not such an attraction to the outdoors anymore. Fall was still a month or so away, as it was only the middle of August.

Nowadays, the bored Espada would stand around in the main foyer of Las Noches, waiting around for someone else to come and strike up idle conversation with. Some sat around in their rooms, kitchen, and even the media room. One hung around in the library or in the more secluded parts of the fortress—and sleeping, since a bout of mononucleosis kept him enervated and indifferent as ever. One locked himself up in his lab for days on end. Did anybody care? No.

Stark stood around in the foyer, concentrating on the ice blue tile he stood on. It reflected the soft, white lighting from the vaulted ceilings above. It hadn't occurred to him how silent Las Noches was. He heard nothing in the foyer; it was still. Only when someone was coming from one of the large hallways did he hear the distinct echo of footsteps. The sad part was that he could already make out who was coming just by listening to the footsteps. Ulquiorra's footsteps were slow and rhythmic, like a funeral procession—and it was quite fitting. Noitora's were sloppy and loud. The relaxed, quiets ones belonged to Halibel, and the fast, slightly frenetic ones belonged to Szayel, who was always in a hurry to do something or get somewhere. As for Grimmjow, he didn't walk—he stomped. The speed would depend on where he was going. Fast meant kitchen or media room, slow meant Aizen's meetings or anywhere else.

Stark sighed. What could he do to remedy his endless boredom? But then, he heard the characteristic footsteps of none other than Ulquiorra coming from the western hallway. Stark calmly walked over to Ulquiorra just as he came out of the corridor.

"Hey." Stark greeted, flanking him. "What's up?"

"Hi…" Ulquiorra said coldly. "Nothing."

"Let me guess." Stark smirked. "You're bored?"

"To a certain extent, yes." Ulquiorra admitted. He was a little more distant than usual today, and he stared in front of him listlessly, distracted by the unseen.

"Me too." Stark sighed. "There's nothing to do. We're not sent on missions and nothing happens here."

Ulquiorra nodded jerkily.

"I was on my way to Szayel's room."

"What for?" Stark asked, lip curling.

"I needed to ask him something regarding this." Ulquiorra rolled up the sleeve of his arm, revealing a pinkish rash up to the middle of his forearm. It was clumpy and looked mildly irritated.

"What is that?" Stark asked, perplexed.

"I do not know." Ulquiorra rolled his sleeve down.

"Is it itchy?" Stark asked.

"Somewhat. It's quite bothersome at times." Ulquiorra replied. "It appeared yesterday morning."

"That's weird." Stark muttered. His skin crawled at the thought of having a rash like that. "Are you sure it's a good idea to ask Szayel about it? He might try to cut you open."

"Who else am I supposed to ask?" Ulquiorra snapped. "Should I ask you, Dr. Stark?"

Ulquiorra's comment carried not an ounce of sincerity and for that reason Stark didn't even bother replying. What he was going to say was "piss off" but that would be a bad way to end a conversation with Ulquiorra. And for that reason, he found himself accompanying Ulquiorra to Szayel's room.

"Look." Stark put a hand to his temple and sped up his walk to Ulquiorra's unusually speedy gait. "It's a rash. It's the same thing you get when hot sauce spills on your arm, or when you use bathtub cleaner as soap."

"It's itchy and I don't like it." Ulquiorra replied coolly.

"Overreacting." Stark murmured. "Where is this mofo's room, anyway?"

"Fourth floor, straight ahead once you get off the stairs." Ulquiorra said as he ascended the stairs two at time. Stark rolled his eyes and followed him dutifully until they reached the large door to Szayel's room. For an edgy minute or two, they stood there, looking at it. It was quite an ordinary door, but the fact it led to Szayel's room made it imposing, daunting.

"Open it." Stark whispered, taking a step back. Ulquiorra shot him an anxious look and turned the handle, opening the door. He was satisfied that it swung easily on its hinges, despite its weight. He took a step in, and motioned Stark over.

It was, indeed, no different than the rest of Las Noches. The tile was clean, the room was large—it looked like Stark's and Ulquiorra's rooms, with more clutter and towering stacks of books and papers. The bed had one half devoted to stacks of books, papers, and an open laptop while the other half had a long, thin body—none other than Szayel— occupying the little space left.

Stark and Ulquiorra looked at each other, scowling slightly. Szayel should've noticed them by now. Stark rapped on the doorframe and crept over to Szayel's bed with Ulquiorra a few feet behind. Upon creeping closer, they noticed Szayel was too immersed in book to notice. It was a thick tome of a book, one that didn't look much fun to read. He looked peaceful, but had a slight frown on his face. And he looked slightly different…but Stark couldn't point out what. And Ulquiorra was the one to prod his side.

Szayel frowned, snapped his book shut and then sat up.

"Yes?" he prompted tersely.

"Inspect this for me." Ulquiorra rolled up the sleeve of his arm, revealing that ugly rash. Szayel looked at it for two seconds before giving Ulquiorra a long are-you-fucking-serious look.

"It's a rash." Szayel said bluntly. "Clearly, you're having a reaction to something you ate, a topical solution, or…" Szayel thought for a moment. "Something else. No fever, no pain?"

"No." Ulquiorra replied.

"Great. Congratulations, it's a rash. Put some antihistamine on it." He said dryly. He scowled at them. "Anything else you need?"

"Nope, and, uh, you look pretty busy, so…" Stark took a few steps back.

Szayel sighed. "I'm not busy at all. Quite the opposite, actually. I don't feel well." He frowned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "But I'm fine."

"Oh, well, that's an issue." Stark muttered. He scratched his head.

"Do you need anything?" Ulquiorra questioned warily, taking a step back. He hated sick people.

"No." Szayel said quickly with a wave of his hand. "Just a tension headache. But that reminded me of something—I think you're all due for vaccinations."

"Pardon?" Stark question, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, you know, Lyme disease, avian and swine flu, tetanus, JE, TB, PPV, MCV4, Varicella, HiB, let's see…and a few new ones I developed that I'd like to try." Szayel smiled slightly. But Stark saw the mischievous glow in his orange eyes.

"Care to repeat yourself in _English_?" Stark said coldly. He flashed Szayel an insincere smile.

"Excuse me, we're superhumans." Ulquiorra piped up—he paid no regard to Szayel's last comment like Stark, who was blanching. "Do we really need twenty shots?"

"Twelve." Szayel corrected. "And, yes, you do. Want to know why?" Szayel hopped off the bed, stretching slightly. He looked down at them, grinning in a shifty manner. "None of us were alive after the vaccine was invented. We were all dead! We have zero protection against the viruses and illnesses of the outside world—well, not me, I already have my vaccines."

"R-Right, but it's not like we interact with humans that much." Stark put in reasonably. He was looking down at his upper arm rather self consciously. Needles made his skin crawl more than Ulquiorra's rash, Halibel's strange food cravings (baked okra, chocolate ice cream, and salmon, all mixed together as a smoothie) and Noitora's teeth—combined.

"Actually, although our immune systems are significantly more developed, viruses and bacteria can still breed. Our blood is slightly more alkaline than human blood, and for that reason, it's harder for bacteria and viruses to breed, but not impossible." Szayel explained. "Our immune systems take well to immunizations, too."

"Let's start small. What the hell's a vaccine?" Stark asked gruffly.

"A vaccine is a dosage of weakened bacteria or viruses that are injected into the bloodstream. It causes leukocytes to recognize the strain of the virus and produce antibodies. That way, when the real thing comes in, the antibodies can recognize it and kill the viruses quickly."

When Szayel saw the wide eyed, scared looks on Stark's and Ulquiorra's faces, his headache worsened. He knew they'd be uncooperative at the time of injection.

"Okay, let's start smaller." Stark said coolly. "What's a virus?"

"A virus is a nonliving—"

"Nonliving?" Stark repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Explain."

"I was getting to that," Szayel said testily. "A virus is a nonliving, pathogenic particle that is significantly smaller than bacteria. Viruses don't breed, they replicate. A virus will enter the bloodstream and latch onto a regular cell—this cell is the host, and the virus that latches onto it is the bacteriophage—and the bacteriophage, that is, the virus, will latch on with its protein coat. The virus will then inject its genetic material, which is either DNA or RNA. The DNA or RNA will slip into the cell's nucleus, taking advantage of it and hijacking the cell's organelles to produce more of the virus' genetic material. The cell will lyse, which means burst, when the virions—that is, the new viruses produced in the cell—have reached top capacity in there. Those virions will infect other cells, and the viruses will grow exponentially. That is the lytic cycle. Want to hear the lysogenic cycle?" Szayel finished his explanation with a smile. The lysogenic cycle was slightly more complicated. It involved reverse transcriptase, a process by which genetic material is changed into another type of genetic material (such as RNA to DNA). They will then become part of the cell's DNA, and lie dormant but present as the cell replicates. Then, the lytic cycle will be initiated, and the virions will be produced. This is the case with HIV. HIV is a lysogenic virus, and for that reason is undetected until the lytic cycle activates, which brings about the symptoms.

Stark and Ulquiorra were staring at Szayel as if he was some sort of Martian, and to them, he was. Only Szayel understood that. Stark had lost him as soon as he said pathogenic. And Ulquiorra was lost even before Szayel had started.

"Okay, so what you're saying is that viruses take over the body…?" Stark said, scowling. "What a pain."

"Hey, don't complain." Szayel said darkly. "As Arrancar, we have double myelin sheaths, protecting us from polio. Our livers cells are stronger than human's—we have complete immunity to hepatitis. Haven't you noticed hangovers are difficult to get?"

Stark tipped his head to the side in agreement. It was true. He could drink several beers and feel fine the next day. Noitora could drink twenty five shots of vodka and wake up with nothing but a slight headache. Ulquiorra had a different opinion because a seemingly innocuous glass of wine had in bed the whole next day, but he was a lightweight, and underage. Even so, Szayel was right.

"If you two would be so kind, please bring Halibel, Noitora, and Grimmjow to my lab." Szayel said, making a beeline for the door. "And bring yourselves too, of course." And with that, Szayel was gone, leaving Ulquiorra and Stark in his room.

-

-

Stark glowered at Ulquiorra the whole way to the kitchen. It was because of his stupid rash they'd all be stabbed twenty times with needles of various gauges. All because it was a little itchy and someone was being more of a pansy than Grimmjow. But Stark didn't say anything, because Ulquiorra looked like he was dreading the shots just as much as Stark was. Stark's reverie was broken when he smelled something sweet and pleasant upon turning into the kitchen.

His eyes landed on a large, pink cake sitting on the kitchen island, with none other than Halibel frosting it. Stark didn't want to ask, and luckily, Grimmjow did just that for him.

"That cake is obese!" Grimmjow yelled, pointing at it. "Why?"

Halibel's turquoise eyes flickered to meet his before they looked back down at the cake.

"It's for me." Halibel said dryly.

Grimmjow's big blue eyes widened. He looked down at Halibel's expanding stomach and frowned. The cogs in his head were turning.

"I thought you were pregnant." Grimmjow murmured.

"I am, imbecile." Halibel said sharply, jabbing the frosting knife at him. "And that was joke, by the way."

"Sorry to rain on the parade…" Stark said tentatively. Actually, he was more than happy to rain on the parade. Whatever Halibel's cake was made of certainly wasn't something that appealed to people that didn't share the same cravings as her. "But Szayel wants us in his lab."

Noitora groaned and whacked the table with his Playboy. His lip curled and he shook his head, genuinely annoyed. Grimmjow, across the table from him, had a forkful of some unidentified substance halfway to his mouth, but was busy gaping at Stark incredulously instead. Halibel set her knife down and joined Stark and Ulquiorra without even batting an eye at the news.

Grimmjow sniggered and threw his fork back into his dish, rising from the table and stomping over to them with Noitora lagging behind.

"What the hell for?" he demanded. "Some crazy ass experiment?"

"He didn't specify." Ulquiorra said evasively. If Grimmjow knew the real reason, he'd jump out the window or something. "But he said it was of mild urgency."

Grimmjow rolled his eyes none too conspicuously and grunted.

"Let's go, I guess."

Halibel was walking briskly, and for that reason was ahead of everyone else. They dragged their feet along and sulked.

"You look like you're being led to a noose." Halibel remarked, lowering at them. "Lighten up."

The horde followed Halibel, who knew what she was doing, down into the deeper recesses of the labs—namely, the medical suites—and found Szayel in a very convenient location in the hallway. When he saw them, he smiled halfheartedly and pointed to his right.

"Take a turn here and go into the room on the third left." Szayel instructed. "I have to run this report to chem and I'll be back in five." And with that, he continued on his speedy walk in down the hallway, flipping through a manila folder.

Halibel led them into the indicated room and sat down on one of the examination tables nonchalantly. Grimmjow, however, narrowed his eyes and looked around, taking deep sniffs occasionally.

"Smells like hospital." He remarked gruffly.

"And it'll taste like hospital when you pass out and hit the floor at the sight of a needle." Ulquiorra said quietly. His comment went unheard by Grimmjow, however, who continued to look around. This room was quite similar to an exam room or perhaps an emergency room, with three examination tables spaced quite a few feet apart. It was cold, clean, and stiff. But when he was inspecting the counters, as they appeared to be 'suspicious', he saw them.

The needles were laid out on a metal tray. They were filled to various capacities with opaque liquid, thin silver needles glinting under the bright lights of the room. Each offending injection was a of a different size—some were wide, others were small and looked fairly innocuous. Even so, Grimmjow was tempted to cero them into oblivion.

"I found them, guys! I found the damn needles." Grimmjow waved his arms around.

"Congratulations." Stark said dryly.

"Oh." Noitora sauntered over there. "You did find them. Well, if we empty them out it'll look like we actually got our shots." He said pensively. With a smirk, he glanced at Grimmjow, who high fived him.

"Great idea." Grimmjow snickered. "Let's see...you press that thing, right? The thing with that circle on top? And then it shoots out of the needle?"

"I think so." Noitora said with a shrug.

"Your plan is faulty. Szayel won't buy it." Halibel said flatly. "You two don't even know where to administer the shots, and I'm pretty sure Szayel knows that."

"Shots are given in the ass, right?" Noitora said eagerly.

"No, you retard." Grimmjow scowled, stomping his foot. "They go in the knee. Or neck."

Halibel shook her head very slowly and exchanged a relatively irritated look with Stark and Ulquiorra. Sometimes, she wondered why she bothered anymore. Stark and Ulquiorra felt the same way. There was no way to escape from the stupidity of Grimmjow and Noitora. Luckily, Szayel showed up right then and immediately shooed Grimmjow and Noitora away from the needles.

Szayel pulled on a pair of latex gloves and smiled placidly at them all. He looked over them, searching for the one that didn't look afraid. Unfortunately, none of them looked truly comfortable. Grimmjow was standing in a corner, warily glaring at Szayel, and Noitora was lingering near the door, glancing at the clock every few seconds. Halibel was sitting on another examination table, and she didn't look like she'd be moving any time soon. Stark was sitting next her, and stared the wall blankly. Ulquiorra was watching the needles with a slight grimace. Szayel's spirits sunk slightly. He'd have to choose.

"Stark first." Szayel said, gesturing to the examination table. With his back turned to them while he prepped the needles, Stark mouthed "Shit" and settled on the table, frowning slightly.

"Take off your jacket." Szayel said in a bored tone of voice. Noitora wolf whistled and clapped his hands, smirking. Halibel and Ulquiorra rolled their eyes and Grimmjow kind of sniggered.

"Noitora, for that I think I'll test my ebola vaccine on you." Szayel rounded on them all, eyes flashing with anger. "And if you start bleeding to death, I'll let you die in the morgue." A wry smile distorted his countenance as he turned to Stark, who was shivering slightly in his black undershirt.

Szayel had a needle of fair caliber clutched between the tips of his middle and index fingers, thumb held loosely on the plunger. With his left hand, he swabbed the place of injection—a spot on Stark's arm two inches lower than the shoulder.

"This shouldn't hurt." Szayel said reassuringly, flicking the syringe with a finger. He gave the plunger a little push, and a stream of liquid came out the needle's end. "By the way, this is chickenpox."

"Do I have any last words?" Stark murmured darkly. Just looking at the needle made him feel itchy and gross.

Szayel narrowed his eyes in offense and decided to get revenge by jamming the chickenpox—varicella—vaccine, one of the painful vaccines into Stark's arm, causing Stark's eyes to widen in pain. He glanced at the needle and immediately looked away as Szayel pressed the plunger very steadily.

"Ugh."

"Don't look at it, then." Szayel snapped. He threw the used needle over his shoulder and landed it in the sharps box, earning him an impressed—though insincere— applause from Noitora.

"Next we have tetanus." A small needle was now in Szayel's hand. It was thin, to Stark's relief. Szayel eyeballed another place on Stark's arm, just below the other site of injection. He swabbed it and without warning administered the shot—in a normal fashion, this time. Stark frowned at the dull, yet smarting sensation in his arm. He could see the small needle out of the corner of his eye, but didn't dare to look at it straight on.

"By the way, if you don't relax your muscles, you're going to be quite sore for a few days." Szayel said coldly. "But that's not my problem."

From the tray, Szayel picked another needle.

"How many shots are we getting today?" Ulquiorra asked, staring at the needles.

"Four or five. For Stark, four. This next one is the Lyme disease vaccine." Szayel replied, turning to Stark. This injection appeared to be larger, with a thicker needle than the other two. It was filled with clear liquid, but Stark could tell it was a large dose.

"Oh, God…" Stark murmured, inching away from it. "Isn't Lyme Disease something in third world countries?"

"Hold still!" Szayel hissed. "No, Lyme can be found anywhere." With a quick swab just below the other two sites of injections, Szayel stuck the needle into Stark's skin. As he pushed the plunger on the needle, Stark felt his arm begin to funny. But the injection itself didn't hurt much, which was a relief. However, his poor arm was already starting to feel heavy and sore from the other shots. He didn't even have a chance to rest before Szayel came at him with another needle. Szayel glanced at Stark for a moment before swabbing him and administering the last injection.

"Done." Szayel peeled off his gloves and tossed them into the wastebasket. "If you develop a low grade fever or a rash at the site of injection, don't worry. It's just a reaction. If the symptoms worsen, come to me _immediately_." Szayel's tone of voice indicated a severe reaction or some other life threatening malady. Stark nodded and shakily slipped off the examination table. He pulled on his jacket and sat next to Halibel.

Szayel, with a calm smile, turned to his scientific test subjects. Even after seeing that Stark made it through the ordeal alive, they still looked wary and in Grimmjow's case, scared. And it was for that reason Szayel grinned and beckoned Grimmjow over with his finger.

"Grimmjow." He said in a sing song voice. "You're next! You'll be getting avian and swine flu, regular flu, tetanus, Lyme, and chicken pox…oh! And one for meningococcal disease."

"Are you on drugs?" Grimmjow demanded frantically, hopping up and down. "That's…" he looked up at the ceiling as he counted. "Six fuckin' shots! NO! Not going to happen!"

Szayel rolled his eyes and leaned against the counter. But, he let his left hand fall to one of the drawers which he pulled open very slowly, clandestinely. In that drawer was the tranquilizer gun. If Grimmjow didn't cooperate, then it would surely be put to good use. It was loaded, ready to be fired at the uncooperative patient.

"You won't even feel it." Szayel said firmly. "I promise!"

"Lies…" Grimmjow said dramatically. He accusingly pointed at Szayel. His big blue eyes were wide with a mix of terror and hatred.

It was then Szayel realized he'd have to take a different approach.

"Oh, that's right." Szayel said with a grimace, waving a hand. "You're too much of a pansy to take the intense pain of a needle."

Grimmjow opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it. His eyebrows quirked downward and he looked at Szayel for a while, pondering Szayel's statement. Grimmjow sniffed some blatant lies.

"I am not a pansy." Grimmjow said in a low voice. He wasn't. Nobody got away with calling him a pansy. A burning rage came over him—he wanted to punch Szayel.

Szayel raised an eyebrow but said nothing, flexing his fingers in a new pair of gloves.

"Whatever you say." Szayel sighed. "Oh, dear. I suppose I'll have to give Ulquiorra the shots next—"

"NO!" Grimmjow jumped out of his corner and assumed a battle stance, glowering at Szayel with his bright blue eyes. Bravely, he said "I'm not a pansy, and I'll prove it. Load with me those injections."

Szayel smirked. _Jackpot_. Reverse psychology, he had noticed, was the nonviolent alternative to the tranq gun. With a sweeping, theatrical gesture, Szayel pointed to the examination table and said curtly, "Sit."

Grimmjow stomped over there and hopped on, dramatically throwing his jacket down next to him, revealing his bulging biceps, which he flexed threateningly.

"Ohh, I'm sooo scared!" Szayel said sarcastically. He held the needle loosely in hand, and gave it a casual flick. He sniggered. "Relax the muscles, otherwise it will hurt."

Szayel noticed a faint look of worry come over Grimmjow's face.

"Bring it, bitch!" Grimmjow snapped.

Because Szayel was a bit sadistic, he decided to go for the largest shot—Lyme. It wasn't painful, but it was big. The painful ones were tetanus and chickenpox—which he'd save for last. Once Grimmjow saw it, his eyes widened and his lip curled. He slowly leaned away as Szayel disinfected the sites of injection. And for a long tense moment, they stood there, glaring at each other, with the needle in Szayel's hand.

And without warning, Szayel attacked. At once, the needle was under Grimmjow's skin, and Szayel was steadily administering the dosage.

"OW!" Grimmjow screamed. He reached for the needle to rip it out of his arm, but Szayel slapped his arm away—hard. The _smack!_ resounded throughout the room. Grimmjow gasped in pain and looked at the red mark on his forearm. It was a temporary and agonizingly painful distraction, and when Grimmjow looked into his arm the needle was out.

"I swear to God," Szayel said through gritted teeth, "I will put this needle in your _eye _if you _ever _try anything like that again."

Grimmjow was stunned into silence. He was staring at the red mark left from Szayel's hand with wide eyes. He hardly noticed the next injection—influenza—penetrate his skin. And it was out almost as fast it was in. Likewise, Grimmjow didn't even have a chance to freak out about the second vaccine.

"See? That wasn't that bad." Szayel said stiffly.

"Dude, you kind of left me with a fucking tattoo of your hand!" Grimmjow exploded. "I mean, seriously! Look at this shit!"

"Be quiet." Szayel said sharply. He was quite proud of himself, however. The imprint of his hand was clear and distinct. Success! "It's a needle. By flailing around like that, it could've ended up through your arm."

Grimmjow cringed. Now it made a little more sense. And the slap hurt more anyway. Upon closer inspection, he noticed it was almost a bruise. Grimmjow suddenly felt a new, dull but radiating pain in his arm. He gasped and looked down at the small needle in his arm.

"Goddamn!" he exclaimed. "Shit, that hurts!

"That was tetanus." Szayel explained. "Last, but not least, is chickenpox…"

Grimmjow gulped at lowered at the needle, grimacing as Szayel jabbed it into his arm. Grimmjow watched, heart pounding, as the needle became empty—but in the process, a ruthless stinging sensation erupted at the site of injection.

"Um, ow, what the fuck, why does it hurt so much?"Grimmjow muttered, shuddering at the sight of the needle. The worst part was when Szayel pulled it out—his skin seemed to cling to the needle.

Szayel chuckled and said, "It hurts because I'm not going very deep with that one. And there you have it." Szayel said with a nod. "You survived."

"Barely," Grimmjow muttered. He cradled his sore arm and slid off the examination table. "Can I leave?"

"Not so fast!" Szayel cut him off before Grimmjow could escape. "You're missing something."

Grimmjow didn't like the nasty smirk on Szayel's face, nor did he like the way Szayel slinked his hand into his pocket. Grimmjow was expecting him to pull out five other needles, 16 g monsters. But no. Szayel pulled out small paper squares instead and peeled them open.

"Band aids." Szayel said cheerfully, smacking a pink flowery one on Grimmjow's arm.

"Dude, oh my God! Band aids are for pansies!" Grimmjow fumed.

"Exactly." Szayel smacked another on—this one was yellow with hearts on it, and the others were star-spangled, candy striped, and one had kitties on it. Grimmjow sat there, sullen faced (he almost resembled Ulquiorra) until Szayel was finished. Szayel, however, was enjoying himself, guffawing at the look on Grimmjow's face. Mr. Macho Man would likely try to rip the band aids off, but give up due to how 'painful' it was to do. Sure enough, Grimmjow did try to rip one off, but ended up giving up and cursing, giving Szayel a dark glower.

"There—now I've had my fun. You can leave." Szayel said with a shrug.

And with that, Grimmjow snatched his jacket and scampered out of the room. Noitora thought about sticking his foot out so Grimmjow could trip, but thought better of it. This was his chance to escape. But Halibel was staring right at him—she was boring holes into him with her eyes. Damn, he wouldn't be able to flee.

"Ulquiorra, you're next." Szayel said with a small smile. "You're getting two shots."

"Why does he get less torture than everyone else?" Noitora demanded.

"He has no spleen; therefore, infections are more difficult to fight off until his liver takes over the spleen's duties. The vaccines may be a weakened virus, but that doesn't mean it can't cause infection, especially since Ulquiorra is spleenless." Szayel explained briefly. "Jacket off, Ulquiorra."

Reluctantly, Ulquiorra did as told. He was reminded of the unpleasant splenectomy once he saw the long, straight scar that ran vertically on the better part of his abdomen. The next thing he knew, something cold was touching his arm—the alcohol pad. But he was pleased to see that Szayel was holding the smallest injection—tetanus. The needle was so thin, he could hardly see it. But he sure did feel it. Ulquiorra winced at the prick, and shifted minimally—the needles size didn't do the hurt any justice, but it was nothing to make a scene about—that was Grimmjow's job. What came next was the flu vaccine, which Ulquiorra didn't even feel.

"Alright, you're done." Szayel said. "You may leave."

Without a word, Ulquiorra left. Noitora was the next to get the shots. He, like Grimmjow, was slightly uncooperative, but nothing too difficult. Szayel ended up having to administer two of the injections in his leg because he was being uncooperative. Noitora, with much cursing, limped out of his lab, hoping never to return.

Szayel was quite pleased to see Halibel sitting on the examination table with Stark at her side. The sleeve on her left arm was rolled all the way up—her baggy sleeves were advantageous in times like these.

"I'm going to give you two shots as well," Szayel said. "Since you're pregnant, I don't want to risk anything."

Halibel nodded in agreement, glancing at Stark for a moment.

Szayel swabbed her arm and filled the needle with the serum, quickly slipping it under her skin at a ninety degree angle. Halibel didn't even react. She watched the needle keenly. The second needle was in and out seconds later, and she rolled her sleeve down.

"Thanks for cooperating, by the way," Szayel said gratefully as he peeled off his gloves. "I appreciate it. It's so hard to find easy patients."

"Yes, well, we aren't exactly an easy bunch." Halibel said airily, sliding off the examination table. Stark immediately flanked her.

"That's true," Szayel chuckled. "See you soon."

And they certainly would.

* * *

Filler chapter ftw! Since it is a filler, I'll update earlier than usual next time. After all, I have up to chapter 19 done, and if you review you might get a hint out of me. I hope you liked it.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Not So Epic

* * *

Stark really didn't see It coming. He was walking down the hallway in Szayel's lab with Halibel at his side, slightly pained by his arm, which had been stabbed by injection of all calibers and infused with strange serums. It dangled uselessly at his side. All was fine and dandy until he slipped and didn't feel the ground under his feet…in desperation to break his fall, he placed a foot out in front of him and flung his arms out to the side for balance. The next thing he knew, there was a loud pop, a sharp burst of pain, and he fell to the ground with a smack, eyes wide with shock.

"Stark!" Halibel exclaimed, rushing to his side. She was bent over him, concerned.

"Motherfucker." He said through gritted teeth. The pain was nearly unbearable. It was focused around his left ankle, the epicenter a few inches above his heel. It was a dull, burning sensation, and combined with the shock of the fall, a nasty feeling in general. When Stark felt water seeping in through his clothes, he was miffed to find that a puddle was to blame for the fiasco. Halibel extended a hand and pulled him up in a fluid move.

"Thanks," he said gruffly, gingerly putting weight on his foot. When he took a step, however, his ankle gave way under him. A spurt of pain almost brought him to the floor once again.

"You slipped?" Halibel asked patiently.

"Yeah…I guess so." He muttered, gesturing vaguely to the puddle.

And Szayel came bustled out of the exam room a few seconds later, looking harried and tense.

"What happened?" he demanded. "I heard something."

"I fell." Stark said through gritted teeth. "Because of that spill." He pointed a few feet to his left. Szayel immediately looked up at the ceiling, searching for leaks. A look of understanding passed over his face but he kept quiet. Stark wouldn't be pleased to know what he had slipped in.

"Ahh…are you alright?" Szayel asked, tipping his head to the side thoughtfully. He had things to do, but it was common courtesy to ask. Stark rolled his eyes in a very Ulquiorra-ish manner. He was leaning heavily on Halibel, who managed to hold him up steadily.

"Well, I heard a snap. What does that mean, _Dr. Grantz_?"

"Attitude, Stark, attitude." Szayel said coldly, wagging a finger at him. "Can you walk?"

"Of course." Stark flashed a cold, insincere smile at him. "Go blow some stuff up, why don't you."

"I think I will. Have a nice day." And with that, Szayel proceeded down the hallway, rifling through a stack of papers he was carrying. Stark and Halibel watched and waited until he was out of earshot.

"If you can walk, then get off me." Halibel said gruffly, undoing Stark's arm from around her shoulder.

"W-Wait a minute! You can't let me recover from the shock?" Stark asked, appalled at her behavior. Did she not understand the meaning of pain? Stark grimaced—whatever he did to himself really had his nerves on end. The sharp, radiating hurt near his heel was standing out from the dull pain around his ankle.

"I have to pee, and you perfectly well what'll happen if I don't find a bathroom in five minutes." Halibel said coolly. She began a stiff walk toward the lab's exit. Stark had to hop along after her. When he tried to walk, his foot fell right back to the floor—standing on tiptoe was impossible. So, he dragged himself to the kitchen, desperate to complain about Szayel to someone. But upon entering, he was met with raucous cheering from Grimmjow, Ilforte, and Tesla.

"Chug it! Chug it! Chug it!" they chanted.

Noitora was standing at the kitchen island, chugging a gallon of milk. Grimmjow, starry eyed, was timing Noitora's feat with Ilforte's Iphone, and Tesla was snapping pictures like the paparazzi.

"Come on, man! You're at one thirty!" Grimmjow yelled, waving his arms around. "This is unbelievable, holy shit."

With a flourish, Noitora slammed the plastic gallon down on the counter with a bang, leaning over and gasping for breath.

Grimmjow let loose a stream of awed cusswords, and Ilforte was dragging the trashcan over because he knew all too well what would happen in the next minute. Tesla was almost crying with joy. It was a world record. The gallon was empty. Stark sighed and dragged himself over to the cheering crowd.

"Fucking shit, man." Noitora gasped, clutching his stomach. "That was insane."

"Yeah, I think you'll also find the aftermath insane, bro." Ilforte said with a snide smirk. Stark noticed his eerie resemblance to Szayel when he smirked like that.

"Dude, oh my God, one thirty three point seven eight." Grimmjow said, marveling. "I'm in love." Noitora gave a weak smile.

"I'm not feeling too good." Noitora said with a frown.

"Obviously." Ulquiorra's drawl seemed to ice the room over, and Stark realized with a jolt that he had been there the whole time. Ulquiorra was good at being unobtrusive.

"Shut up, fag." Grimmjow snapped, eyes flashing. "He's a winner, okay? Don't hate."

Noitora groaned and moseyed over to the table, dumping himself in a seat and resting his head on a magazine.

"Keep the trashcan nearby." Ilforte warned, making a move to go. "All that lactose can really eff you up, like, you don't even know, man." He left shortly after delivering his words of wisdom. Did Grimmjow and Tesla listen? No. Ulquiorra was conspicuously rolling his eyes, arms folded. Stark hopped to Ulquiorra and decided to strike up idle conversation.

"Why are you hopping?" Ulquiorra asked. He didn't appear to be too curious, but his interest was piqued simply because a dignified Espada should not be hopping from destination to destination. It was absurd.

"I slipped and fell in Szayel's lab, and now I can't walk." Stark mumbled. It sounded stupid. Espada were supposed to be athletic, tough, and intelligent. Of course, such qualities were rarely displayed by Grimmjow and Noitora, but that was beside the point.

"I presume that is your own fault." Ulquiorra said under his breath. "Are you in pain?"

"Of course. It's at the back of my ankle." Stark said with a grimace.

"I see." Ulquiorra's eyes shifted to a place over Stark's right shoulder as he watched Grimmjow fan Noitora with a bunch of napkins frantically.

And it wasn't until the evening they met again in the media room. Because Aizen was actually in Las Noches—finally—he had instituted a new law that he called Family Fun Friday, which meant a movie, board games, and pizza. The main issue was that Aizen would get flustered if any of his dear Espada cursed—a problem, since Grimmjow and Noitora cursed during the movies, board games, and pizza. "HOLY SHIT!" for something surprising, "Fuck" for losing board games, and the perfunctory "damn" for when there was nothing else to say. Others refused to participate in the shenanigans, like Ulquiorra. Some fell asleep during movies—namely, Stark. The tradition would be abandoned as soon as Aizen left for Curacao in five days. Ulquiorra had seen the brochures. But Aizen was there right then, meaning they could not escape.

The plus was that they could get out of uniform and wear normal people clothing, like pajamas! But, others took advantage of this…Noitora walked around in his furry cheetah print underwear and Grimmjow went shirtless. Nobody cared, really, except for Aizen.

But Stark noticed, when he crossed his legs after settling himself on the large, plushy couch, an odd bruise on the back of his left ankle. He tapped it, and a searing pain erupted there. Wincing, he forced himself to watch the movie. Today it was Pirates of the Caribbean. Better than Veggie Tales.

Szayel was on his left, chin in hand, sour faced. He wore a lab coat over silk pajamas, and definitely wasn't going to take it off. Halibel was on Stark's right, immersed in the movie's plot.

"This is boring!" Grimmjow said loudly, whipping out his cell phone. Aizen threw him a nasty look, but said nothing when he realized Ulquiorra was asleep, along with most of the other Espada.

"Agreed." Noitora mumbled.

"I'm going to bed." Stark said flatly. He rose from the couch, placing all of his weight on his right leg. Avoiding Aizen's reproachful glare and Szayel's critical, assessing gaze, he tried to perambulate out of the room as best as he could, but still ended up hopping and dragging one foot behind. He thought he was free once he had reached the doorway.

"Not so fast." Szayel said loudly, jumping up off the couch. "Well, not that you actually can move fast, but whatever." He rolled his eyes. "Your hopping is pissing me off. I'm going to examine you right away." Szayel brusquely patted a spot on the couch next to him. "This should be fast."

"I'm fine—"

"Will you stop lying?" Szayel said sharply, eyes flashing with anger. Stark drew breath to reply, but it was useless. He hopped back to the couch and dumped his tired body onto the cushions.

"Which leg?"

"Left ankle." Stark said begrudgingly. Szayel grabbed Stark's left ankle and gently placed it on his lap, turning it every which way. And then, Szayel spotted the small depression in Stark's ankle. His eyebrows went up expectantly.

"Flex your foot downward." He commanded.

"I can't…" Stark said sheepishly. That was the reason he couldn't walk. The pushing off from the ground was impossible. He also couldn't stand on his tiptoe.

"Wow, this is easy to diagnose. You ruptured your Achilles tendon with that fall today." Szayel said. He tapped the indentation, eliciting a pained twitch from Stark. By now, the movie had been paused and the rest of the Espada and Aizen were looking on eagerly as Szayel made the diagnosis.

"Definitely a rupture. How'd you manage this, Stark?" Szayel asked, raising an eyebrow. He set Stark's foot down.

"Gee, ask that spill in your lab."

"Ah, you must have stretched it out and torn it by doing a little maneuver to save yourself. Which failed, of course." Szayel said snidely. "Well, with a break of this caliber, surgery will be in order. I would even do it now, but the bruising and swelling is substantial, so I actually can't."

"Why me?" Stark murmured, running a hand through his dark hair. He looked up at the dark ceilings and sighed. Seriously, why? He had a visceral feeling that he'd need rehab, braces, and other things just like his ACL surgery. Hopefully, this one would be a little less traumatic.

"Ice it." Szayel said curtly. "That should help with swelling. Come to my lab at eight o'clock sharp on Thursday, August nineteenth, four days from now."

-

-

"Should we hold a prayer service for you?" Noitora asked snidely, slathering some of his signature chili on Stark's plate.

"A funeral would be more appropriate." Stark quipped. He had iced his ankle twenty four seven, to the point where it had gone numb a few times. The bruise had faded, and the swelling was gone. The indentation was now clearly visible.

Grimmjow gave a loud hoot of laughter and slammed his hand on the table acting as if Stark's comment was the funniest thing in the world. Nobody even asked. Grimmjow was just elated at the quality of Noitora's cooking. Noitora was like Gordon Ramsay and Emeril, just slightly more toolish and armed with twice the ego and bossiness of a snobby surgeon when he was 'cooking up a storm'.

"Eh." Noitora waved a hand. "You'll live."

"You've never actually been sick enough to go to Szayel, have you?" Stark asked.

"Oh, I've been pretty sick before, but I'm smart enough to stay in my room. Plus, sex and beer cure everything." Noitora smiled lecherously and spooned meat onto Stark's plate. "But in the meantime, just eat this before that Nazi comes in and takes away your privileges to food too."

Stark smiled vaguely and raised the fork to his mouth. The smell of Noitora's cooking made his mouth water. Everything Noitora cooked made him salivate.

Noitora sat down and mixed his food, singing/chanting/rapping 'This is why I'm Hot' under his breath. The table was quiet. Ulquiorra rarely spoke, and when he did, it either depressed the rest of the table or brought on a session of Let's Play With Ulquiorra's Mind™, a game invented by none other than Grimmjow.

"Ulquiorra, why do you never smile?" Grimmjow asked suddenly. It was one of those days—let's make someone's life hell today. And sometimes, the game started because the table was far too quiet…

"I do not feel the need to." Ulquiorra said flatly.

"I think Szayel should check to see if you have face muscles." Noitora said.

"I think he should get his head checked." Grimmjow said. "According to 2kul4skool, people who feel no emotion or smile are ninety eight times more likely to become serial rapists, killers, psychos, stalkers, terrorists, sick fucks or all of the above."

"Lies." Ulquiorra said, brushing off Grimmjow's ignorant comment.

"It was written by a real psychiatrist!" Noitora snorted. "Don't deny it."

"The fact this website is called 'too cool for school' indicates that this 'psychiatrist' lacks credentials and likely a high school diploma." Ulquiorra said with a short, irritated sigh.

"Okay, this mofo just insulted the omniscience of Dr. LegitBeast." Grimmjow said. "Let's ignore him."

"What a change." Ulquiorra drawled sarcastically.

"Do you hear anything, Noitora?" Grimmjow said in an unnecessarily loud voice. It was the same one he reserved for harassment purposes only.

"Not at all." Noitora said coyly.

And the verbatim continued. The topic changed from cars to food to women to video games to alcohol and finally to Szayel's hormones. Stark dismissed himself from the table and retreated to his bedroom, where he collapsed on his bed and succumbed to sweet, well deserved sleep, only be broken by Halibel shaking him awake the next morning.

"Time to go," she said, pulling him out of bed. It was seven fifty one. Much too early for Stark, who usually slept in until eleven. He was dragged out of the room by Halibel, who was briskly walking to Szayel's lab. Stark was biding his time.

They burst into the lab at eight-oh-six, to be greeted by the not so welcoming committee, standing in the foyer, donning green scrubs. Szayel's arms were folded, and he was tapping a foot impatiently. His green scrubs were pressed and clean. The lack of a lab coat insinuated imminent surgery. His expression was stony and his eyebrows were quirked downward in the petulant frown.

"You're late," he snarled, leading them to the pre op room. Stark knew what to do—sit on the bed and be poked and prodded as his vitals were recorded. Temperature, blood pressure, respiratory rate and pulse were all recorded, bearing satisfactory ratings. The IV was started almost immediately by Szayel, who was in a terrible mood. Glum faced and generally annoyed, he was brusque as he shoved the cannula into Stark's vein. Stark jumped—the stinging was so prominent!

"Be back in five," Szayel muttered, storming off.

Stark cursed under his breath and examined the IV taped to his hand. A tingling sensation was left behind. And not even five minutes later, he was in the operating room. It was cold and uncomfortable—the operating table was too firm, too narrow for Stark's tastes. A bright light was overheard, slightly to his right, but still strong enough so that Stark was looking slightly to his left. By now, his nerves had worn off. He couldn't fight. Surgery didn't hurt. But it was a huge pain in the ass to recover from. He presumed he'd be back on crutches for a long while. In fact, Halibel had brought them. They were leaning against the wall in his recovery room.

Szayel said not a word as he bustled about the OR, making sure everything was in working order. And then, Ulquiorra's pale face appeared overhead, partially obscured by a white surgical mask. Stark nodded in a curt greeting, and Ulquiorra's emerald green eyes flickered somewhere else. Typical.

"Hell yeah, bitches." Stark heard him before he saw him—Grimmjow's acid tongue and footsteps were enough to give away his presence, even with the loud _whoosh_ of the ventilator nearby.

"You have no class." Ulquiorra said darkly.

"Shut up, ho!" Grimmjow snapped.

Halibel joined them and silenced them with an icy glare. And when Stark felt his awareness slip, he knew it was time. Stark just closed his eyes. In a morbid way, he liked anesthesia. It put him to sleep quickly, erasing any thoughts from his mind. The last thing he felt was something cold on his leg and a pat on the shoulder from Halibel. He was out.

-

-

Stark was intubated, rolled onto his stomach, and his left leg was slathered with orange Betadine from knee to toes all in about five minutes flat. Achilles tendon reconstruction surgery could sometimes be lengthy, but it was recovery that was lengthier. Szayel sighed and plucked the scalpel from the instrument tray. The incision would be about four inches long, a normal, decent length. Szayel sank the scalpel into the skin just two inches over the heel, and drew it upward four inches in a vertical line. The incision shone with blood. Grimmjow shuddered deeply.

"Ulquiorra, get the small retractors off of the instrument tray." Szayel commanded. Ulquiorra plucked tiny, innocuous retractors of the tray and slipped them into the incision. He pulled the skin apart and locked the retractors. The thin, transluscent sheath that covered the Achilles tendon was exposed.

"What's the difference between a tendon and a ligament?" Grimmjow piped up. Szayel looked up a Grimmjow blinked a few times, hardly believing that Grimmjow had asked such a normal, decent question. Halibel looked up from the needle holder she was fingering.

"A tendon connects muscle to bone and primarily assists in movement. A ligament connects bone to bone and contributes to structure and stability." Szayel explained.

"So what Stark screwed up last time was his ligament."

"The anterior cruciate, yes." Szayel answered. "Both ligaments and tendons are tough. However, people like dancers are flexible because they train the tendons to be that way through proper stretching techniques. This will make them more resistant to rupture."

"Beast. Stark was using cripple sticks for three weeks." Grimmjow said. "How long will he be on cripple sticks this time?"

"Three months." Szayel replied shortly. He waited as the information sunk into Grimmjow's head.

"Three months?" Grimmjow demanded. "That's like…one quarter of a year!"

"Yes." Szayel said. He was busy making the shallow incision in the sheath of the tendon. He pulled the sheath aside, but nothing was actually revealed except for blood, muscle and some other membranes.

"Where is it?" Grimmjow asked.

Szayel pulled one end of the tendon up—it had been disguised in blood. Ulquiorra drabbed at it with gauze, revealing the beige, fibrous, stringy tendon with a jagged, complete tear running horizontally. Szayel prodded and pressed the tendon experimentally. As an Arrancar, and as an Espada, Stark had tough tendons. But some exercise once in a while would do him good. His sedentary lifestyle probably contributed to the tear. It wouldn't have happened to Grimmjow, who spent plenty of time exercising.

"That's kind of freaky," Grimmjow said. "It looks like the bone."

Szayel moved the tendon aside and pointed to a pale structure with a thin membrane and fat over it. "That's the bone," he said. Now to start. He handed the scalpel to Halibel, who placed it on the instrument tray and plucked heavy duty metal scissors off of it.

"I am going to cut away the torn edges of the tendon." She said, wielding the blade confidently. "Am I right?"

"Oh…yes." Szayel said, astounded by her knowledge. Halibel's insight had proven to be quite a help. Szayel stepped aside, allowing her to take the stand. Halibel snipped the ends of the split tendon, leaving clean, fibrous tendon behind. Szayel nodded in approval, and picked the needle holder from the instrument table. She handed it to Szayel, who inspected it briefly.

"I'm going to weave the tendons together," he explained. "Due to the severity of the tear, I might sew a few strands from an allograft tendon to strengthen it. Might. Or I'll move on to the mesh."

"Why are Achilles tendon tears more common that other tendon tears?" Grimmjow asked. The nausea was settling in the pit of stomach. He focused his eyes on the ceiling and tried to think of a happy place.

"Poor blood flow. It's like the cruciate ligaments—Stark's ACL had to replaced because it tore and there is not enough blood flow to the area for it repair itself." Szayel answered. He was weighing the needle holder in his hand, hesitating. He then inserted the needle in the tendon. Under, over, under, over. It was a relatively simple pattern. But due to the sturdy fibers the tendon was composed of, the weaving was a quite a tedious process. Halibel and Ulquiorra were holding the tendons still with forceps while Grimmjow hung back, trying to blend in with the white walls of the operating room.

"Do you want to try, Ulquiorra?"

"Do I have to?" Ulquiorra asked hesitantly. He didn't even trust himself with a fork. Ulquiorra didn't like needles and sewing was not his forte.

"If you screw up, then I can fix it." Szayel said genially. He held the needle holder out to Ulquiorra. Ulquiorra sighed and held it awkwardly, awaiting orders from Szayel. "Your fourth finger and thumb will be through the loopholes, but since this is a different case you can just hold it like you would hold a dinner knife."

"Palmar grip," Halibel put in.

Ulquiorra did as told, surprised at the lightness of the needle holder. He looked at Szayel briefly, who nodded—an indication to start. A mild queasiness came over Ulquiorra when he poked the needle through the thick tendon. He found himself applying force and twisting his wrist to get the needle to pop out on the other side. He made a mildly disgusted sound in his throat. He could feel the warmth of Stark's body as his finger hovered millimeters over the incisions

"Good, but go a little deeper." Szayel instructed. "Make two more weaves and then I'll take over."

Those two weaves took Ulquiorra forever. The fact he was stabbing a needle though a body part was unnatural to him, and for that reason he was busy pondering the morality of this act. The two weaves he made were deeper, more satisfactory. But Ulquiorra was more than relieved to hand the needle holder back to Szayel, who finished the weave on the first half of the tendon. He then moved on to the second half, which was woven quickly. Then, the two pieces of tendon were sewn together with a variety of fancy knots Szayel made twists, turns, and flicks of his wrist. Nobody asked how he managed it, but he did.

"There we go. The tendon is sewn together. But wait! There's more."

"Call now and you get free puke from Grimmjow!" Grimmjow said in weak, slurred voice. He groaned and began to fan himself. He had made the mistake of looking down at the tendon just as Szayel was tensing the tendon. Stark's foot gave a little jerk downward each time Szayel pulled, and it was the connection that really was the final touch to Grimmjow's nausea.

Szayel was quiet for a minute. "Hey, Grimmjow. Come over here."

"It's a trap, isn't it?" Grimmjow demanded savagely.

"No, no." Szayel said, feigning innocence. He winked at Halibel and Ulquiorra, who earnestly wondered what that wink was about. "It's not. Come over here."

"Fine—my offer takes ten minutes to expire, anyways. So I'll just puke on you." Grimmjow muttered darkly. He ambled over to Szayel's side, looking anywhere but the site of surgery. Szayel grabbed Grimmjow's gloved hand, staining it with blood and orangey betadine. He pressed the tips of Grimmjow's fingers to the tendon.

"Feel that?"

Grimmjow's eyes were wide with shock and terror. What he felt underneath his fingers was warm and stringy, mottled with small, hard bumps. It was too warm—human body warm. The small bumps felt like thread. And when he looked down, a raging panic settled in. He yanked his hand out of Szayel's grip and staggered back.

"That's—tendon—touch—!" Grimmjow sputtered, shuddering violently. He was swaying on the spot as his knees buckled.

"Yes! Wonderful, isn't it?" Szayel gushed.

Grimmjow's face drained completely of color. He turned a sickly gray green color, like asphalt, and crumpled into a heap onto the ground, out cold.

"That was mean, Szayel." Halibel said, wagging a finger at him.

"That wasn't the intention." Szayel said with a small frown. "I thought it would be comforting—some people are kinesthetic learners."

Because touching tendons is very calming." Ulquiorra said blankly.

"What made you think he'd stand touching it when he couldn't even look at it?" Halibel said wearily. Men were so stupid sometimes.

By now, Szayel was holding a small sheet of white mesh with miniscule holes. With the forceps, he placed it on the tendon and tucked it under the tendon in gentle but hasty movements, followed by fast and simple stitches to hold the mesh in place. Halibel assisted with the lavage, skillfully slipping the tip of the suction every which way. The warm saline water would flush the opening of potentially harmful bacteria. The incision was sewn, and a bandage was firmly placed over the incision. Done.

-

-

Stark awoke to a heated argument between Grimmjow and Szayel, though what they were saying was unintelligible. He groaned. Pain, hunger, and nausea roiled inside him. He was conscious, but random scenes and desires played in his mind over and over again. Stark was reluctant to open his gray eyes, not wanting to face the truth. He noticed there was a brace on his left leg that came up to three inches under his knee. His foot was immobilized, pointing downward at a forty five degree angle…why?

He cracked his eyes open and then blinked a few times, clearing his bleary vision.

"Can you two keep it down?" he croaked.

Szayel was holding a pen to Grimmjow's neck and Grimmjow had Szayel's neck in a vicegrip. Szayel had a leg reeled back, and his aim was obvious. Halibel sat on a chair nearby, demurely flipping through People™ magazine.

Szayel landed a relatively light blow to Grimmjow's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Szayel acted like nothing had happened—he smoothed his hair down and fixed his lab coat.

"Hi. How are you feeling? Any pain?" Szayel inquired, scrutinizing Stark's wan face. He was likely a bit nauseous.

"Eh, I'm feeling okay. Yeah. Pain." He said with a small nod. Halibel patted his hand and closed the magazine.

"Okay." Szayel nodded. "The operation was a success, but…" he dramatically pulled the sheets back, revealing a black brace that was a complicated mess of fastenings. It had Stark's foot immobilized, pointing downward.

"Why—" Stark asked with a scowl.

"It allows the tendon to heal better. We'll set the adjustment in about three weeks to a neutral position. The sutures need to dissolve, first." Szayel replied even before Stark could ask.

Stark shrugged and grunted noncommittally. It was significantly more comfortable than the ACL brace, which climbed up to the middle of his thigh.

"Nine weeks non weight bearing. Absolutely no walking or even putting weight on your injured leg." Szayel said, adjusting his glasses. "The boot will be on for fourteen weeks. In general, you won't be moving around without crutches for about…twelve weeks."

"Shit, son," Grimmjow snorted. "That's a goddamn long time."

"It's three months." Stark said. It hadn't quite sunken in yet. He glanced at his silver crutches, leaning innocuously against the pale green wall. Oh, did they hurt at first. Bruises and calluses formed on his hands and just below his armpits. His arms were sore. But this time, he figured it would just be best to lie around in bed under he could move around. But that probably wasn't going to happen. Nope, Halibel was the kind of person that cut nobody slack, regardless of circumstances. It was the same way his ACL—"Will you get me some pickles in the kitchen?" and then his pitiful, "I've love to, dear, but I've been out of the lab for three hours only." "I want some pickles. Get them now."

"Rehab will be intensive and long." Szayel said in a matter of fact tone. Even Stark knew that was coming. Hopefully, it would be less difficult than the ACL rehab. "Oh, and, someone decided to leave a little gift for you…"

Szayel gracefully gesticulated to a vase of flowers and a fancy card that contained curly, flamboyant handwriting with a perturbed frown. Stark opened the card and perused it. He suddenly felt sicker than ever. It was from Aizen, wishing him a 'fabulous recovery'.

"Szayel, go blow this up, please." Stark said. He sounded a little hysterical. Szayel pocketed the card and nodded solemnly. "As for the flowers…want to mutate them?"

"Of course!" Szayel snatched the vase from the table, grinning maniacally.

And so, Stark hobbled out of the lab one hour later, band aid over the site of his IV and back in his silky uniform. He was groggy, but well enough to return to his room. Upon arriving in his room, he collapsed on the large, plushy bed, tucked a pillow under his leg, turned on the TV, and got to work.

* * *

I wanted to update before leaving for a competition, so yeah. I don't like this chapter...but the next one is quite an amusing malady.

There WILL be brain surgery in one of the upcoming chapters.

And I expect several reviews when I get back.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-asshole

* * *

Stark raised an eyebrow at the brown chunks of meat on his plate. He poked it with his fork and expected it to poke him back, twitch, or grow hairy legs and walk off his plate. A grimace marred his otherwise calm expression as he jammed his fork into it halfheartedly He found his fork was almost stuck in it. It was then he noticed Szayel glaring at him from across the table.

"Well?" he prompted sharply, setting his hands on his hips. "Aren't you going to eat it?"

Stark felt his stomach roil with queasiness upon glancing at the mess again. Why, oh why did Szayel have to cook tonight? Stark would've settled for a bag of chips and cake as long as he wouldn't have to eat this. It seemed the rest of the table had mutual feelings regarding the gunk on their plate. Grimmjow was trying to kill it with his eyes, Ulquiorra had quite blatantly pushed the plate away from him, and Noitora was smuggling cookies from under the table. Halibel was politely cutting her food up, but Stark could tell she was just as nauseated as everyone else-- her left hand was twitching slightly.

"I am not eating this crap," Grimmjow said flatly. "Because this is not food."

"I second that!" said Noitora.

Szayel looked at them expectantly over the rims of his glasses, waiting for them to amend their statements before he went postal on them. Szayel's mood had gone south at the start of September, and nobody knew why. He spent more time in his lab, and when he felt like venting his anger, he'd stand just outside its entrance and yell at anyone who walked by, Espada or not. Szayel had given Ulquiorra a nasty bruise with his sword when Ulquiorra casually walked by, on his way to the throne room. Needless to say, Ulquiorra was extremely wary of Szayel nowadays and spoke to him as little as possible in a cold, distant manner.

"Oh, poor, poor, Espada." Szayel said histrionically, waving a hand. "Think of all the African children with nothing to eat."

"Um, I'm French," Grimmjow said, eyebrows raised in an emphatic matter. "That doesn't apply to me. Oh, and there are no starving French kids, by the way."

Szayel, offended, opened his mouth to reply but then closed it, lacking any smart ripostes that would confuse Grimmjow. Instead, he frowned.

"Just eat it!" he commanded. "It may look bad, but I promise, it's not."

Halibel was the brave one. Carefully, she raised a forkful to her mouth, and nibbled a small piece off, chewing carefully and deliberately. Everyone watched her with bated breath, awaiting her verdict. Finally, she swallowed, and set down her fork.

"It's teriyaki beef," Halibel announced.

A collective sigh of relief was let out. Szayel looked like he could hug her for saying something that was remotely positive about his meal—Halibel had managed to identify it! Her comment had made his day.

"Oh." Grimmjow shrugged. "What are you bitches waiting for? Let's eat!"

Szayel was watching, blissful, as the rest of the Espada enjoyed their dinner. Noitora was licking his plate, which meant he liked it. Even Ulquiorra, the pickiest eater of all, seemed to like it. Everything was going just fine until they heard a loud bang as Grimmjow's knee hit the table on his way up. Mild chaos ensued.

Grimmjow appearing to be fanning himself with his hands, very flustered. His blue eyes were wide, and he was coughing, until he stopped abruptly. Szayel watched the spectacle curiously, eyebrows furrowing. Noitora started laughing at the bizarre scene while Stark and Ulquiorra ignored it. Halibel had no idea what to make of it until Grimmjow put both his hands to his throat, white with terror and desperation—it hit Szayel like a blow to the head: Grimmjow was choking.

Szayel jumped out of his chair and stood behind Grimmjow, wrapped his arms around his waist, and formed a fist with his left hand, topping it with his right.

"This might hurt," he warned. And with a firm, brutally hard push into Grimmjow's diaphragm, whatever was stuck in his trachea was dislodged—the Heimlich maneuver had proven to be effective. Szayel let go and jumped back as Grimmjow fell to his knees on the floor, panting and furiously rubbing his stomach.

"O-Oh, God." He said tremulously. "The pain. The _pain_."

"Pain?" Szayel asked faintly, paling slightly. "You shouldn't be in pain. Well, that much pain."

Grimmjow stood up shakily, grasping the back of a chair for support. He was ashen with pain and mild terror, and was breathing quickly, taking in shallow breaths, wincing each time he breathed. Everyone watched him silently. He cursed under his breath and doubled over slightly.

"Where does it hurt?" Szayel asked urgently. He never was too good at performing the Heimlich maneuver. Perhaps he had broken a rib accidentally, but he didn't hear a crack. Grimmjow wouldn't forgive him for this.

Grimmjow moaned in reply and folded his arms over his chest.

"M-Maybe it's heartburn." Noitora stammered nervously, eyeing the beef suspiciously.

"Heartburn," Grimmjow spat, "Is for losers. Ow, damn. It really hurts when I breathe."

Stark and Ulquiorra exchanged skeptical, but concerned looks as Szayel looked at Grimmjow in deep thought.

"Well, then I guess I'll have to take you to my lab." Szayel muttered. He looked guilty for a moment, but he quickly changed. Anger flashed in his eyes. "Of course, none of this would've happened if you were eating at a normal speed!"

"And who was the person that almost impaled me with his fist?" Grimmjow snapped back in a strained voice. He winced and coughed slightly.

"I'll go with you two," Halibel said, rising from her chair.

"Same," Stark said quickly, grabbing his crutches. Lately, Stark had been quite clingy—Halibel always had Stark at her side. True, she was big as beach ball and likely to pop—that is, have the baby—this month. But that didn't deter her from continuing normal activities. Stark, however, insisted that she never leave her bedroom or do anything at all. And since Halibel ignored his pleas, he was left to follow her everywhere, just in case.

This left Ulquiorra, who, under the indirect peer pressure, conceded. For that reason, he found himself walking down the familiar hallway in Szayel's lab. He hung back from the crowd, as Szayel and Grimmjow were bickering intensely up ahead, over who started it. He had to admit, Grimmjow was winning: "It's all your fault because you can't cook food that looks nice, meaning that it will be more shocking when I take a bite and realize it's not shit and then eat it fast because I'm hungry!" Well, maybe not. Szayel looked beside himself with annoyance. There was an angry tinge of pink on his hollow cheeks. Ulquiorra was distinctly amused.

They entered a chilly, spacious room with a most thought-provoking structure in the middle. Grimmjow voiced everyone's thoughts.

"What the hell is that thing?" he asked, pointing critically.

"Oh, that?" Szayel gestured vaguely to the CT scanner. It was an odd thing. There appeared to be a box of about two feet long with a round aperture in the middle—like a tunnel. A narrow bed was just outside it, blanketed with a few small pillows.

"Yeah, what else?" Grimmjow hissed.

"That's what's going to be scanning you." Szayel brusquely pushed Grimmjow onto the narrow bed, pinning him down as gently as he could with one hand.

"W-Wait a sec," Grimmjow sputtered. Szayel shoved a pillow under his head none too gently. He looked like he would beat Grimmjow if he tried anything funny. "What exactly is that thing going to do to me?"

"Careful," Ulquiorra said snidely, "I see laser beams in the tunnel. Don't get fried."

"You're not helping." Szayel's snippy reply shut Ulquiorra up.

Grimmjow made a move to sit up, but Szayel raised a hand threateningly and said breathlessly, "So help me, I will slap you if you don't cooperate. Lie the hell down and _don't move._" Grimmjow nodded mutely and shot an indecipherable look at Ulquiorra.

Szayel smashed a button on the scanner, which caused the table to move into the opening. Red beams appeared on him in a target-like fashion. Szayel surveyed him carefully and pressed another button, moving the table in further. He was watching for the proper alignment, especially on the abdomen, since that was the place of suspected injury. When he found everything to be aligned perfectly, Szayel allowed the table to return to its starting point.

"Arms folded behind your head. Stay still." Szayel said firmly. With that, he whisked everyone else into a small, cramped room with a window that opened up to the scanner. There was fancy computer monitor with a screen prompting Szayel's password, along with other authoritative things.

"So, what does a CT or whatever do?" Stark asked, frowning. He really didn't see the point of it—mainly because he had never seen or heard of one before. Before Szayel could reply, Halibel's fountain of knowledge powers activated.

"A CT scan is an imaging technique used to acquire a cross section of the body. It is particularly helpful in diagnosing and viewing trauma to the internal organs, bones, tissues, and blood vessels." She said with a nod. "Along with that, it's very fast. The CT scanner will get the images by using numerous x-ray beams—an emitter will send them to the receiver, one hundred eighty degrees from it. This will revolve around the patient. Therefore, the rays pass through the patient, thus acquiring the images."

Halibel paused, allowing Stark to take in the information. He shrugged and grunted. Only people like Halibel and Szayel were able to understand that. He looked to Szayel, who was smiling vaguely.

"Correct." Szayel chuckled. "How do you know this?"

"My overprotective spouse forces me to sit and watch TV shows all day. Needless to say," nobody had detected the blatant lie—her green eyes shifted down to the left. "I find myself watching shows that are quite informative."

Szayel nodded in approval. He became immediately serious as he clicked something.

"Alright, the scan starts now." He muttered.

Grimmjow was moved into the hole at a relatively fast speed, only to come back out to the starting position. On screen, they had a planar x-ray of his chest and abdomen. Szayel looked it over and narrowed his eyes. Nothing wrong with his bones. There was a vague outline of his intestines, but nothing more.

Meanwhile, Grimmjow was expecting the table to start moving again. He knew that Szayel wasn't that nice—he still had the rest of the procedure left. And Grimmjow didn't dare move as the table went back in, slower this time. He heard a faint whirring and innocuous clicking coming from the scanner, with an occasional buzzing sound. Grimmjow resisted a shiver. It was cold in the room. He wanted to wrap himself up in a blanket and sleep. But he couldn't do that for the following reasons—one, the table was not soft enough, and two, he wasn't on his stomach, which was how he liked to sleep. Grimmjow slipped into a monotonous daydream and didn't notice the scan was over until Szayel popped his head into the room and mumbled, "It's over."

With much moaning and cursing in pain, Grimmjow maneuvered himself off the table and whimpered like a stray puppy as he ambled into the tiny room everyone else was crammed into. Szayel was studying a crossing section of Grimmjow ("Fucking A!", Grimm had said) with an indecipherable, guarded expression. The cross section revealed all of his abdominal organs, but he noticed something was wrong. They were not in perfect relation to each other. He leaned closer and changed the orientation of the image. His brow furrowed. Halibel was looking over his shoulder, examining the scan.

"Torn diaphragm," he said finally. He bristled with irritation when he received blank looks from the rest of the Espada. Grimmjow coughed rather inconspicuously, almost swooning with pain.

"What's a diaphragm?" Ulquiorra asked curiously.

"It's the muscle that separates the upper trunk organs from the lower trunk organs. Primarily, its function is to expand and contract the chest cavity as the lungs take in and breathe out air." Szayel said, turning to them.

"Right." Grimmjow whispered. Talking hurt too much. "So I have a hole in my die-uh-fffram?"

"Yes…" Szayel tentatively. He intended to continue, but was interrupted by Grimmjow.

"Greatness!" Grimmjow said heartily. He paused to cringe at a sudden burst of pain. "In that case, I'mma go play GTA—"

"Ah, ah, ah." Szayel smirked, wagging a finger at Grimmjow in a most condescending manner. A wry grin was spreading on his lips. "Torn diaphragms can't heal themselves."

"'Kay," Grimmjow murmured impatiently. He was fidgety. "So give me a pill."

"I'm afraid you're missing my point, Grimmjow." Szayel said gravely. "_I _will have to repair your torn diaphragm via surgery."

Grimmjow blanched immediately. His whole body tensed up, and he stared at Szayel with wide, shocked eyes. He suddenly gave a cold, high laugh, and then gasped at the pain that ensued.

"Not going to happen!" he hissed, horrified.

"Yes, it is!" Szayel jumped out of his seat savagely, jabbing a finger in Grimmjow's shoulder as he spoke. Stark made a move to restrain him. "That tear is going to lead to a load of problems and I am _not _going to deal with them later! So shut up, calm down, and let me handle this." Szayel was breathing heavily, a wild look in his eye.

"Szayel, you need to calm the hell down." Stark said. A small, incredulous smile was playing on his mouth. He took a hesitant hobble forward and flanked Szayel.

"And you," Szayel rounded on him, "need to shut up."

Stark rolled his eyes, and, sick of Szayel's tantrums, gave his back the finger quite conspicuously. Halibel caught him and slapped his arm in disapproval.

Szayel gave a deep sigh and pinched the sleeve of Grimmjow's jacket, heading for the door. But then, Ilforte burst into the room, throwing the door open so hard that it rebounded off the wall, much to Szayel's annoyance.

Grimmjow just about fainted when he saw Ilforte. He gave a little whimper and backed away. Having been under the knife before, he knew that Ilforte was the one that messed with the vein related things, and ultimately, the anesthesia. Because Grimmjow's stomach hadn't agreed with the combo of anesthesia and cereal, Grimmjow now had a grudge against Ilforte. And Szayel. But mostly Szayel.

"Just the person I was looking for," Szayel said dryly.

Ilforte glanced at the CT and then at Grimmjow. And then Szayel's grim expression.

"Oh, come on." He grimaced. "Seriously?"

"Yes." Szayel said morosely. "Tell Lumina and Verona to prep the OR."

Ilforte sighed and shuffled off, murmuring some things to himself. Szayel turned to his audience.

"Well, all of you follow me." He said with a short sigh. Szayel led the train of Espada and they followed as if they were playing a depressing game of the Follow the Leader. Eventually, they ended up in the pleasant corridor that had nice clean beds drawn apart by curtains—pre op.

Grimmjow automatically sat down on the bed and didn't even battle Szayel as he recorded his vitals. He was too numb, too scared to retaliate. The pain was almost unbearable—if felt as if someone had inflated a large balloon near his stomach. Each breath tore him up inside—it was too taxing to fight back. That, and Szayel's mood was beyond foul today. And Grimmjow knew he'd sustain another violent injury if he pissed Szayel off.

Ulquiorra was watching in twisted amusement as Szayel wheedled the IV needle in Grimmjow's vein. Grimmjow was leaning away, lip curling with disgust as he watched. But he then looked away, blanching, as the cannula went in further.

"Does it hurt?" Ulquiorra taunted in hollow voice.

"N-Not really," Grimmjow breathed faintly.

Szayel sniggered and said, "If you think this is pain, you're going to be in plenty after the surgery,"

And Grimmjow paled one more shade at the insinuation he'd be in worse pain. He also felt a surge of anger. Who was Szayel to tell him this, anyway? Grimmjow himself felt like delivering a big punch of reality to Szayel's frowning face.

"That," Halibel said with a shake of her head. "Was rude, Szayel. You'll be fine with a nice dose of morphine, Grimmjow."

"Whatever." Grimmjow murmured. He didn't seem too convinced. When Szayel finished everything, he said, "Be back in ten." And that was that—Grimmjow had to ten minutes to pray, repent, and angst.

"What a bitch!" Grimmjow said once Szayel was out earshot.

"He's very edgy today," Stark agreed. All in all, he had no idea why Szayel was so murderous. There was definitely something going wrong in his life—or, in his head. The thought of Szayel in a straitjacket elicited a satisfied snort from Stark. How he wished he'd see the day.

"Yes…" Ulquiorra said in that distant voice of his. "I still have the bruise on my arm." Ulquiorra rolled his sleeves up to his elbow, revealing a greenish bruise on his forearm that was quite large. Halibel leaned forward slightly to inspect it and met Ulquiorra's gaze, but remained silent.

"You all must remember that Szayel has a lot of responsibilities—" Halibel was cut off by Grimmjow.

"Responsibilities, hmm." He shot her a sarcastic look. "Like making sure he tortures a certain number of people a day? Gee, I wonder if I've met his quota."

Halibel gazed at him coldly. She did not like being interrupted. Halibel continued. "Szayel is the only scientist in Hueco Mundo. Keep in mind that he has to manage _all _fields of science at once. Chemistry, biology, medicine, engineering, physics, among other studies. He probably has a lot of important experiments to concern himself with. In fact, one of them might've gone awry." Halibel proposed the hypothetical explanation with an air of reason. Of all the Espada, Halibel was the sanest, most reasonable one. Although Stark partially agreed with her, he still had different ideas—Szayel was just being bitchy, and that was that.

"Oh, please," Grimmjow waved a trembling hand impatiently. "That's retarded. Szayel's just bat shit insane."

Stark and Ulquiorra nodded mutely in agreement. An awkward silence ensued. There was not much more to say. Grimmjow leaned into the little bed, arms folded. A petulant, uncooperative expression was plastered on his face, wan with terror.

And then, trailing a thunderhead of gloom with him, came Szayel, dressed in green scrubs. A surgical mask, untied, hung over his chest. Upon seeing Grimmjow, he grimaced very slightly.

"Lumina will be here in a bit to bring you to the OR," he said. "And you three," he pointed at Ulquiorra, Halibel, and Stark. "Come with me."

They followed him out of the room wordlessly. He led them to a pair of heavy metal doors, on which a sign read "Authorized Personnel Only". Szayel entered a code and the doors opened slowly. Ulquiorra was hit with a blast of cold air and a strong scent of disinfectant. The hallway was white, long, empty, save for a few heavy doors with narrow windows. Szayel led them a little further and then pointed to a row of sinks mounted on a wall. They were deep, made of stainless steel. On the opposite wall, there were long green gowns hanging from hooks.

"Scrub well, up to the elbow." Szayel ordered. He joined them in doing so, and then pulled on a gown. He tied it deftly and watched them keenly as they did the same. Stark nervously tucked his hair into a surgical cap while Halibel tied a mask around him. Stark felt it wasn't his job to fix Grimmjow up, but whatever—he was afraid to say anything, because Szayel was sizing him up. Luckily, he moved on to Ulquiorra, and finally, Halibel. Szayel nonchalantly pulled on a pair of tight gloves. Even now, Stark couldn't stand how tight they were on his hands. For some reason, he felt claustrophobic, although they were in the spacious OR.

"We look like clowns," Ulquiorra stated quietly as they entered the cold operating room. Stark had to agree. The gowns were loose, long, and baggy. But then something else came to mind.

"Like clowns with leprosy—we're all covered up," Stark remarked. His comment drew a nearly inaudible, conservative snicker from Ulquiorra. Halibel, who had proven to have no sense of humor, did not find it funny at all. She glared at Stark for a moment before joining Szayel by the instrument table, who was examining a scalpel very tensely.

Reluctantly, Stark and Ulquiorra moved closer to the operating table. Stark immediately noticed the gowns didn't have any protection against the cold. However, Ulquiorra didn't appear to be affected.

Meanwhile, Grimmjow was lying on the operating table, squinting under the bright lights above him. Then, someone came to his rescue and moved them out of his face. Ilforte's face appeared above him, unreadable.

"So. Torn diaphragm, eh?" he prompted. Grimmjow, however, did not find the conversation distracting enough to not notice the sticky little circles Ilforte was putting on his chest.

"Uh, yeah." Grimmjow muttered.

"How'd it happen?" Ilforte asked with a small frown.

"That," a nasty grin spread over Grimmjow's face, "is a question to ask your brother."  
Ilforte raised an eyebrow looked over at Szayel, muttering something. He looked almost disbelieving.

"What'd you do, Sza—"

"Don't ask," Szayel said sharply from somewhere nearby. Ilforte winked at Grimmjow and then left him there, working on something else. Panic seared through Grimmjow. He found it a perfect chance to escape, Noitora style, also known as huge ass pansy style. As carefully and quietly as possible, like a cat, he propped himself up on the operating table. Satisfaction flooded him when he looked around the room—Szayel was standing by the instrument table and Ilforte was messing with a large machine. Seeing this as his chance, Grimmjow sat up, mouthed "Don't say anything!" to Stark and Ulquiorra, and gingerly pulled the warm blankets off of him. He swung a leg over the side and was just about to slip off when a qualm of intense drowsiness came over him. He was stopped in his tracks, and he slowly sank back down to the stiff, uncomfortable operating table. Try as he might, Grimmjow found he couldn't fight it off. The room spun around him, and the operating lights were swung right over him, leaving him blinded. But then, Szayel's face appeared above him, a cold look in his eyes.

"Nice try, Grimmjow." He said in a sardonic tone.

Grimmjow couldn't reply. He closed his eyes as a blissful grogginess came over him. And then, he was out.

-

-

Grimmjow's fists unclenched, the perplexed frown disappeared, and his whole body went limp. Stark and Ulquiorra exchanged glances. It was odd to see Grimmjow in such a tractable, malleable state. Ilforte was quickly intubating him and adding the final touches before Szayel could start. It was too bad that Szayel called them to the operating table minutes later. A glinting scalpel was clasped firmly in his right hand. Halibel was slathering orange betadine on Grimmjow's abdomen.

"The tear is in the right side of his diaphragm." Szayel prodded a place below Grimmjow's right set of ribs. "Let's begin."

Stark shuddered as he sunk the tip of the scalpel into Grimmjow's skin, drawing it down his midline with impeccable precision in a diagonal line parallel to his ribs. The incision shone with blood under the blinding light. Ulquiorra slid the retractors in and pulled them apart, opening up Grimmjow's abdominal cavity. Even he spotted the problem immediately.

In the tough pink diaphragm, under the spongy lungs, expanding and contracting well, there was a hole. The crimson, porous liver was visible through the hole and underneath it, sitting on the yellowish, slimy stomach just visible toward the right of the incision. Stark leaned forward, mildly fascinated. He could see the tip of the pericardium, the membrane that surrounds the heat, contract and expand with each heartbeat.

"There's the tear," Szayel said, indicating the opening. "I'm going to sew it up, and after that, we'll do a quick lavage."

He grasped the scissor like needle holder with the curved needle in the groove confidently, assuming the emotional stability of an adult as he popped the needle into the diaphragm and pulled it out on the other side of the incision. He made the knot deftly and then snipped the thread. Then, he looked up at Stark and Ulquiorra. He smiled—they saw his bright eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Since this is a fairly easy surgery, do you two want to try to make a stitch?"

Ulquiorra shook his head spastically, backing away.

"I know Stark wants to," Halibel said immediately, just as Szayel finished. Stark made an attempt to object, but Szayel beckoned him over with a chuckle. He handed Stark the needle holder, which Stark took gingerly, balancing himself on one foot—damn Achilles tendon. He had no idea how to hold the needle holder…

"So, put your thumb and ring finger in the loops." Szayel said patiently.

Stark did as told, scowling. It felt…different. Although the needle holder looked like a pair of scissors, it was nothing like them. It was longer, lighter, thinner, and allowed for more dexterity. Even with different fingers in the loops, he felt it was easier to maneuver.

"Good." Szayel said with an approving nod. "Now, hold the forceps in your left hand. The forceps will be used to hold the diaphragm and move it slightly just so you can slip the needle through."

"R-Right…" Stark mumbled. He glanced at Szayel, who nodded at him to start. Stark wondered how Szayel managed—he felt overloaded by having two small instruments in his hands when Szayel could hold huge, unstable drills, scalpels, hemostats, and suction all at once.

Stark's hand brushed against the diaphragm, and he felt the distinct warmth of a healthy, living body. Though it sent shivers down his spine, it also gave him confidence. He held the diaphragm with the forceps, tempted to let go—he could feel its texture tough in the forceps' grip. He popped the needle in, surprised to find himself applying a fair amount of pressure. Stark repressed a queasy qualm. The needle appeared a second later as he popped it out on the other side of the pink, tough diaphragm. Stark found the experience to be unnerving, but strangely exhilarating. He was waiting eagerly for Szayel to give him another command, another little taste of surgery. This was a fairly run-of-the-mill, straightforward surgery, however. It wasn't particularly enlightening, nor did it use state of the art technology or techniques. Even so, Stark found it fascinating.

"Very good!" Szayel said approvingly. "Though, you might want to space out the sites in which you put the needle in. Now for the knot. I think I should do that; it's quite complicated."

Stark was more than happy to hand the needle holder back to Szayel, who tied an extremely complicated and elaborate knot with a few flicks and flourishes of his wrist. He then made another fast stitch, and Halibel had to get involved with her hands to push the liver down.

The last stitch Szayel left to Halibel, who, to everyone's surprise had the dexterity of Szayel, though she had a certain feminine grace that made Szayel go starry-eyed. It was different than his collected, elegant style. Both were good, but Szayel's hands had the poise of experience. As soon as the hole was sutured tightly, Szayel and Halibel manned the suction and water to perform the lavage while Stark and Ulquiorra hung back.

"Well, well. It seems we have a surgeon should anything happen to Szayel." Ulquiorra said coolly, looking at Stark expectantly.

"Yeah, Halibel's incredible." Stark said with a small frown. There was a lot he didn't know about her, it seemed…

"I was referring to you," Ulquiorra said blankly. "We're aware of Halibel's affinity for medicine."

"She's Szayel's protégé." Stark said with a vague smile. "But me? No way. I'm not into this stuff…"

"Don't lie," Ulquiorra's drawl cut into Stark like a knife. He paused to shudder—Szayel and Halibel were wheedling the suction deep into Grimmjow's abdomen. "I saw the fascination on your face."

"Whatever, Ulquiorra." Stark said dismissively. Ulquiorra's analytical skills were an advantage to him, but a royal pain in the ass for everyone else. Ulquiorra had a habit of reading people like books and then vocalizing his findings. Stark shook his head and said, "I think you're hallucinating. Maybe Szayel should check that out."

"Insolence." Ulquiorra murmured under his breath. "Such insolence."

Stark crept closer to the operating table, observing as Szayel stapled the incision closed. In the meantime, he was talked to Halibel about a new fancy drill he had invented, hardly looking at what he was doing.

"It's _perfect _for drilling burr holes," Szayel gushed excitedly. "I've tested it on several Arrancar."

"Does it minimize bone dust?"

"Indeed! It's very efficient."

Stark raised an eyebrow and said nothing, listening in. The conversation then became too technical and muddled with large medical words. He caught corpus callosum, pons medulla, iliac fossa, and several other fossas. They sounded as if they had memorized anatomy books. By now, Szayel was slathering antibiotic gel over the stitches, bandaging it neatly while Ilforte removed the endotracheal tube.

"That was successful," Szayel said in a lighthearted tone. He winked at Stark and led them out to the scrub room.

-

-

Some thirty minutes later, Grimmjow had begun to stir. Szayel was flitting in and out of the room, juggling several experiments at once. At one point, he returned with a large hole burnt through his lab coat. He either didn't notice or didn't care, even though Stark and Halibel stared at it pointedly.

With a histrionic groan, Grimmjow forced his eyes open, wincing against the light.

"I see the light…" he moaned, making a move to reach toward the light. He was trembling very slightly. "I am dead…but why the fuck do I feel pain?

Szayel rolled his eyes and approached his bedside, quickly injecting and nice dose of morphine into Grimmjow's IV before the complaints became more and more dramatic. Everything was fine—the pulse ox was satisfactory, but Grimmjow needed to take deeper breaths. He wasn't fully awake, and was bobbing in and out of consciousness.

"How are you feeling?" Szayel asked gently.

"Nauseous."

"Hm. Want some Phenergan?"

"Yeah, I'm either too drugges up or too dumb to understand you right now—speak English, dammit."

Szayel assumed that was a yes, so he added some of the nausea suppressants—anti emetics—into the IV to keep Grimmjow happy. Grimmjow was staring blankly in front of him.

"The surgery went well. You'll have to stay here for three days or so—I'll need to make sure everything heals nicely." Szayel said, patting Grimmjow's shoulder. Grimmjow frowned a bit but said nothing, pulling the covers up to his chin and shooting a coyly irritated look at Szayel.

"I'm cold." He muttered.

Szayel smiled at him and left to go fetch another blanket, leaving an awkward silence. Halibel was rifling through a magazine and Stark was looking around the room nervously, as if something was about to jump out of the walls. Suddenly, Stark heard paper rip. He looked to Halibel, who was gripping the magazine so hard it had begun to tear.

"Are you alright?" Stark asked urgently.

Halibel nodded quickly.

"Yes—I'm fine." She replied tremulously. Halibel buried her nose in the magazine, but she was clearly aware of the critical look Stark was giving her. Grimmjow was even noticing the sudden tension in the room, since, unfortunately, he was becoming more alert…and that meant he was throwing snide, ridiculous comments left and right: "Would anyone like to explain why there are office supplies in me right now? Last time I checked, staples were for staples."

Thankfully, Szayel appeared in time to cut off Halibel's equally sardonic reply. Apparently, Szayel had slipped into one of his moods again and threw the blanket on Grimmjow without as much as a terse smile. Judging by the holes and burns in his coat, along with a few inches of singed hair, told a very clear story that whatever he was doing was going badly. Nobody even bothered to ask, even though Grimmjow was tempted to kick him just because Szayel was being so rude. By now, Grimmjow was fully awake, but still in pain and generally confined to the bed, as it hurt to move around. He was texting and making light conversation with Stark while Szayel popped in and out to add his two cents every so often. And he wasn't puking lucky charms, either! Indeed, Grimmjow and his visitors had certain camaraderie, a most peculiar but healthy relationship that couldn't be put into words. Stark and Halibel left two hours later, and had the pleasure—or unfortunate experience—of meeting up with Szayel in the hallway. They exchanged perfunctory hellos and headed out of the lab, only to return a few hours later.

* * *

Hope you liked. Review, please.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Be back later!

* * *

At some point in the night, Stark was shaken awake by Halibel. He had to admit, he was a bit miffed—his dream had been quite nice, with an endless supply of pillows…but he returned to reality and blinked blearily at Halibel, who was standing over him, looking tense and distinctly uncomfortable. Stark knew immediately that something was wrong.

"Stark. Stark, wake up." She said urgently.

"I'm up, dear, I'm up…" he muttered. "What's the problem?"

"The baby is coming."

Once Stark was able to make sense of her announcement, his blood ran cold and his knees felt weak. He threw the covers off of him and immediately felt his knees slacken a bit as he shakily rose from the bed. He grabbed his crutches. Stark was not ready for this. Halibel appeared to be very calm, but fidgety. He tried to steady himself—mentally and physically—as he set out of the room with Halibel.

"Are you alright?" Stark asked anxiously.

"Yes," she replied quickly. "But the contractions are _painful_."

A sudden pang of sympathy came over him—he shouldn't be worried. He shouldn't even be afraid. After all, Stark wasn't the one that would have to go through the physical pain. But still…he was terrified. They weren't prepared! He had no idea how to take care of a child. All he knew was that childbirth was painful, and that it foreshadowed one's life. Yes, Stark was beside himself with anxiety. And he was not doing a very good job of hiding it. They were mall-walking as fast as they could, Halibel with an awkward, rigid gait. They passed by the kitchen, which was, of course, occupied by Grimmjow and Ulquiorra, as only they would be snacking at this late hour. Grimmjow, seeing them pass by, popped his head out and brandished an Oreo™ at them. He wore plaid pajama pants and a tattered shirt.

"Hey! Where are you mofos going?" he hissed, glaring at them. Stark lowered at him over his shoulder.

"The baby's coming." He replied in an isn't-it-fucking-obvious tone, gesticulating mildly to Halibel. Grimmjow's face lit up like Christmas tree laden with gaudy lights.

"No shit, that legit Arrancar baby is coming?" Grimmjow said, awed. His big blue eyes were the size of Ritz™ crackers. "Dude, an Arrancar baby! Ulquiorra, let's go with them!"

Ulquiorra opened his mouth to reply, and was cut off as Grimmjow grabbed his arm and dragged him to Szayel's lab. But Grimmjow didn't know that having a baby didn't mean a stork dumping the kid in the parent's arms. He had no idea that it would involve screaming, pain, needles, and, in some cases, surgery, all of which were nemeses of Grimmjow.

Stark kicked the doors to Szayel's lab open, and luckily, Szayel was standing right in the foyer. He looked at Stark over the rim of his coffee cup, raising his eyebrows. He then glanced at Halibel and spewed his coffee, coughing loudly and pounding his chest with his fist.

"The baby's coming," Halibel said tautly. A small moan of pain escaped her. "And I'd like it if I could sit down on something."

"Of—of course." Szayel harrumphed, regaining his composure. He waved Lumina over with a gurney and gestured to it. Halibel sat down primly, wincing slightly. "Lumina, get her a hospital gown…" Szayel said distractedly. He frowned—Grimmjow and Ulquiorra were there.

"Not to be rude or anything," Szayel said carefully, approaching them suspiciously. "But why the hell are you two here?"

"Dude, legit Arrancar children. I've never seen one before." Grimmjow said, grinning. "When's the stork going to get here?"

Szayel's lip was twitching upward, and it took all of his self control to stop himself from laughing hysterically. He drew breath to correct Grimmjow's primitive paradigm but then had an epiphany—Grimmjow would prove to be entertainment. Instead, Szayel smiled thinly and beckoned them over.

"Oh, he'll be here in a little bit." Szayel said, playing along. Stark and Ulquiorra looked both horrified and amused. "Not to worry."

"What sucks is that we got borned by that Hogyoku piece of shit. No damned storks." Grimmjow said glumly. Szayel quickly turned a snicker into a harrumph and looked at Grimmjow over his shoulder.

"Well, you were born from a…" Szayel bit his lip and heaved with silent giggle. "Stork…in your past life on Earth. Do you remember anything from it?"

"Kind of. Mainly the time I died. I died in a brawl on the street!" Grimmjow said proudly. He pounded his chest heartily.

"The bitter taste of defeat." Ulquiorra muttered. His remarked sobered everyone. The smile fell right of Szayel's face and Stark looked a bit morose. Grimmjow, however, looked distinctly offended.

"Defeat. I lost to illness."

"Burned at the stake for making impressive scientific discoveries…they thought I was the antichrist or something. Oh, the sixteenth century."

"Suicide." Ulquiorra said flatly.

"Wow, shocker." Grimmjow said sarcastically to Ulquiorra. "How come I don't remember anything about being borned? Will this Arrancar kid remember the stork?"

"Probably not." Szayel replied flatly, pointing to a room on their left. "I'll be back in a bit." Szayel took off down the hallway. Stark led them into the room, where Ilforte was taping an IV to Halibel's hand, chatting lightly. He marked something on a chart and glanced at her.

"…six centimeters. When was the last time you had a sonogram?" he asked.

"Yesterday morning." Halibel answered. "Szayel said the baby should be born on September twenty ninth."

"Well, it's September twentieth. Nothing to worry about—we'll just do a C section since the baby is not head first like it should be." Ilforte said with a reassuring smile. "You're a strong woman. You haven't asked for an epidural yet."

"I will." Halibel said shakily with a nod. She groaned minimally in pain, but steadied herself. "In about five minutes."

Ilforte chuckled and left the room, clapping Stark on the shoulder. Stark attempted to smile, but it didn't quite work—he looked like he was baring his teeth. Stark was wan with concern.

"What are you going to name your kid?" Grimmjow asked casually.

"Uhh…we haven't actually discussed that yet." Stark said sheepishly.

"Name it Stark Jr." Ulquiorra said blankly. And he looked serious. Stark and Grimmjow waited for a glint in his eye or something like 'you have no sense of humor', but it did not come. Stark coughed slightly.

"No…" he muttered.

"Halibel the Second?" Grimmjow suggested.

"Could we be a little more creative?" Halibel put in, scowling. She gave a sudden twitch and winced. "I want a nice, elegant name."

"I know! Alfred Leonard Philip William's Chicken the third." Grimmjow said with a sure nod. "Or Grimmjow. You can't go wrong with that."

"She said elegant, not tacky." Ulquiorra snapped. Grimmjow gave him the bird as soon as Ulquiorra wasn't looking. "Xavier, Jasper, Ignatius, Slade, Marion, Marcus, William—"

"Marion and Xavier." Halibel said, weighing the names on her tongue. She nodded and looked at Stark. "What do you think?"

"I like Marion." Stark said. "It's got a nice ring to it."

"And for a girl?" Ulquiorra prompted.

"Name her Princess, Gurly, LaToya, NASCARly, Billie, ESPN." Grimmjow snorted. "Or Grimmjow, haha."

"How distasteful." Ulquiorra said scornfully. He turned to Halibel. "Charlotte, Victoria, Angela, Monica, Cecilia, Cynthia."

"Oh, I like Victoria, Cynthia, and Cecilia." Stark said fervently. Halibel winced and grasped the rails on the gurney, taking a few deep breaths. The searing pangs of pain were coming faster and stronger. She jumped each time she felt a contraction come on.

"Ouch." She said tautly. "Those names are nice. But I like Regina."

"Regina." Stark nodded and smiled almost undetectably. "Regina. That's a very pretty name."

"You guys can call her Reggie!" Grimmjow said, grinning stupidly.

"No." Halibel said fiercely. She didn't intend for it to come out in a such a mean way, but a contraction had come at that time and nearly crossed her pain threshold.

"How distasteful," Ulquiorra sighed. "Reggie is such a trashy nickname."

"Well, as the godfather—" Grimmjow began pompously.

"Godfather?" Ulquiorra spat. He gave Stark and Halibel an exasperated, disbelieving look.

"Yes, he's the self appointed godfather." Stark said firmly. He couldn't resist rolling his eyes. Grimmjow would be a decent one…he seemed to like kids, judging by his reaction to the fact Halibel was having a baby. Besides, Grimmjow would teach their baby life lessons, such as why not to talk to Noitora or associate with him in any way. But, Grimmjow would also teach the kid how to hotwire a car, steal food, and scare people. At the moment, cons outweighed the pros. He absentmindedly placed a hand on Halibel's.

"Also, I love how you people are thinking of names on the spot like this."Grimmjow said, shaking his head. Stark looked at the floor, a bit embarrassed. They should've discussed it more. But he had no time to dwell on that, as Szayel popped into the room, dressed in scrubs. This raised a red flag for Stark. Surgery? Oh, no.

"Halibel, I'll be back to start an epidural. Haha, get it, back? As in, that's where the epidural goes? Ahem. Hang tight, alright? You three, come with me." Szayel beckoned them over with his index finger. He led them to a scrub room and pointed at the sinks and gowns hanging nearby.

"You know the drill." He said authoritatively. Szayel sidestepped, blocking the exit.

"Wait a minute!" Grimmjow stamped his foot like a four year old, gazing at Szayel with burning eyes. "Why are we wearing scrubs if the stork is brining the kid?"

"Oh, the stork likes couture." Szayel said, averting his gaze to the ceiling. He couldn't wait to start laughing when Grimmjow saw the truth. "You see, scrubs are another name for Cutting-Edge couture." Another pun came to mind, but he banished it to hell.

"So doctors have a couture…what's a couture?" Grimmjow mused, drying his hands.

"Just put on the gown." Szayel said wearily.

Once they were all awkwardly suited in scrubs and surgical gowns, Stark whisked them off to the operating room, where Halibel was lying on the operating table with a remarkably calm, but pained expression. Stark rushed to her side and smiled at her sympathetically. There was a thin sheen of sweat on her brow, and she was taking, deep, fast breaths to steady herself.

"Epidural, coming right up!" Szayel said brightly. He leaned over to her and whispered, "Grimmjow thinks storks deliver babies. FYI, we're doing a C section—but you figured that out already, I assume. By the way, would it bother you if they—" Szayel jerked his head to Stark, Grimmjow, and Ulquiorra. "—watched?"

"Not at all." She replied with a nod. "It's an educational procedure."

"Excellent. Any time Grimmjow says something about a Stork, just play along. For now, sit up." Szayel said. "Right, then. The epidural. Stark, Ulquiorra, Grimmjow, come over here."

As Ulquiorra walked around the operating table, he happened to catch a glimpse of this so-called epidural. And there was a needle on the tray that was so long and thick that Ulquiorra felt a deep sympathy for Halibel. And where would that needle go, anyway? Szayel had already opened the back of Halibel's hospital gown and slathered her back with the orangey-brown betadine. He was holding a relatively small, innocuous needle.

"This is the lidocaine," he said. And just like that, he jammed the needle into a point on Halibel's that lied between her mid and lower back, steadily administering the dosage of lidocaine. Grimmjow's mouth dropped and Stark looked like he wanted to strangle Szayel. But they had not seen the Tuohy needle lying on the tray. Indeed, Ulquiorra felt a deep shudder in his spine when Szayel plucked the massive needle off the tray and held it up for all to see.

"The Tuohy needle," he explained. It was long, with a slightly curved, rounded, bevel. The Tuohy needle was marked with thick gray stripes. Like a cannula, its head was reminiscent of a dart's little 'wings'. "Quite handy."

"Are you—are you going to put that _in her spine_?" Stark demanded, blanching. He looked from the needle, to Halibel, and to Szayel.

Szayel tipped his head to the side, and said politely, "Not her spine, per se. Just the lumbar space right between the discs, into the subarachnoid space that way the medicine can take effect."

And with that, Szayel slipped the Tuohy needle into the lumbar space, guiding it deeper and deeper. Once he was in past an inch, Grimmjow was twitching uncontrollably.

"Holy shit." He said in a low voice. Stark nodded in mute, appalled agreement. Ulquiorra shared their feelings as well, though he tried not to show it. Finally, Szayel let go of the needle, and it stuck out of Halibel's spine oddly—it looked like it shouldn't have been there. Halibel did not seem to be uncomfortable at all. Szayel pulled a syringe filled with clear liquid from the tray.

"This is the saline solution. It will flush the lumbar space to allow the medication to flow freely." He explained in a scholarly fashion. Szayel twisted the syringe onto the Tuohy needle and administered the saline in small, intermittent dosages, until the saline flowed easily. With a flick of his wrist, he popped the syringe off and brought something else from the tray. It was a relatively stiff plastic tube.

"Believe it or not, this is a needle. It's a spinal needle. See, we're just going to thread it through the Tuohy…" Szayel paused to slip the spinal needle into the Tuohy, guiding it just until it was deep enough. He wasted no time, and picked a syringe off the tray. This one was filled with slightly opaque liquid. Once again, he twisted it onto the needle, and administered the anesthetic solution. He popped it off and plucked another tube off the tray. It was long, floppy, flexible, and spaghetti-thin. Through Grimmjow's nausea, a hunger pang shot through his stomach once he thought of yummy spaghetti.

"I promise, Stark this is the last thing I'll be putting in her back." Szayel chuckled at Stark's white, pinched face. Stark did not find it very funny. "This is the epidural catheter. The anesthesia will flow through here into the lumbar space and numb here from this point," he pointed to the site of the Tuohy needle, "all the way down to her lower extremities. In other words, she won't feel anything, but she'll be wholly conscious—"

"Hold up!" Grimmjow shouted. "Where's the stork? And why are we numbing her if the stork is coming?

For a moment, Szayel was caught off guard.

"The stork—ah—is picky. It likes rituals such as the one we are doing right now." He said genially. He didn't bother to elaborate, and, instead slipped the epidural catheter into the Tuohy needle and through the spinal needle until it was about four centimeters into the lumbar space. With a flourish, he removed the Tuohy needle, slipping it off the epidural catheter. He taped the catheter to her back and stepped aside as Ilforte took over with the rest of the medications and sterile drapes while Szayel examined a scalpel. He swung the light overhead and focused it on Halibel's abdomen. He placed a blanket over her hips and slathered Betadine on her whole belly, staining it orange. And then, he prodded her with the scalpel.

"Did you feel that?" he asked, looking at her over the drapes.

"No." she replied. Halibel appeared to be relieved that she couldn't feel pain anymore. She looked at Stark, who appeared to be rooted to the spot. Grimmjow and Ulquiorra were standing next to him, primarily to make sure he didn't pass out. Halibel decided to make him feel a bit better.

"I hardly felt any pain, nor do I feel any right now, Stark." Halibel said reassuringly. "You can relax."

"But you didn't see that Tuohy thing, Tia. It was ungodly…" Stark said stiffly. Ilforte was nearby, watching the ordeal. He smirked and patted Stark on the back.

"Szayel and I mean it when we say don't look over the drapes," Ilforte said with a snicker. "Otherwise, you could see something that isn't exactly pretty." He sniggered once again and busied himself with sticking the electrodes to Halibel's chest.

"Dude, don't be lame." Grimmjow said, nudging Stark. "If I didn't freak out—"

"I'd like to remind you, Grimmjow," Ulquiorra drawled rather pointedly. "that you were not even looking at the procedure."

"So? I was still in the room, which counts." Grimmjow muttered.

"It does not," Ulquiorra hissed.

"How are you doing up there, Halibel?" Szayel asked amicably.

"I'm fine." She replied.

"Good." Szayel smiled at her briefly. He was already making the horizontal incision just above the pubic bone. He waved Ulquiorra over and handed him a pair of retractors, which he accepted awkwardly.

"Hold the incision open for me, please." Szayel whispered so Grimmjow could not hear. Ulquiorra made a face—the skin around his eyes tightened. He slid the retractors in and pulled the skin aside, revealing a large, bulbous pink structure. Ulquiorra cringed reflexively when Szayel sunk the scalpel into it, drawing it aside. He pointed to the uterine incision, and Ulquiorra pulled it apart with the retractors, almost retching. He was well aware that his fingers were just brushing a uterus. For the rest of the procedure, he chose to look at the ceiling.

"Oooh! I see it!" Szayel said excitedly.

"The stork?" Grimmjow prompted. "Where?"

"Well, he's obviously not talking about the stork." Ilforte snapped. "So be quiet."

At hearing Szayel's exclamation, Stark shifted his gaze from the floor and made the mistake of looking over the drapes. He had the unfortunate opportunity to see Szayel, both hands deep inside Halibel's uterus with Ulquiorra holding it open. He could even see the various pinks and yellows of Halibel's insides. Grimmjow, next to him, moaned like a hurt animal, and not even the crutches under him could keep Stark up.

Szayel looked up when he heard the thud and clatter, and was surprised to find that Grimmjow was standing solidly, peering at the ground with his eyebrows raised.

"Stark…!" Halibel exclaimed.

"Touchdown!" Grimmjow yelled, throwing his arms into the air. Ilforte peered at Stark, white faced and out cold, sprawled on the floor.

"I told him not to look over the drapes, but no—Grimmjow, don't get any ideas." Ilforte muttered.

"Just leave him there," Szayel chuckled. "He _does _have low blood pressure, after all. We'll take care of him in a bit." He laughed nervously and quickly returned to the procedure. He could feel the baby's head. He grasped the baby's arm and pulled firmly, while holding its head steady with his other hand. And with a smooth pull, the baby was out, and began to cry. He immediately handed it to Verona, who whisked it to another room.

"It's a girl. Congratulations!" Szayel said, grinning at Halibel over the drapes. Halibel smiled back, relieved.

"Reggie is going to have the best fucking godfather ever," Grimmjow said aggressively, pumping a fist in the air. And for a moment, Halibel could've sworn she saw tears in his eyes. But she quickly banished that thought and looked down at Stark, on the floor. Ilforte was bent next to him, fishing for something in his pocket. She recognized the small white cylinder—smelling salts. With a smirk, Ilforte waved it under Stark's nose. He jerked awake and shoved Ilforte away, coughing and sputtering.

"Wow, good job, Stark." Grimmjow said sarcastically, offering Stark a hand. Stark shakily clasped it and let Grimmjow pull him up. He felt weak, sick. Ilforte shoved a soda into his face and forced him to drink it.

"W-What happened?" Stark inquired tremulously.

"Well, Sherlock, Reggie was…wait a minute. _Wait a minute!_" Grimmjow screamed, stomping his foot and flailing his arms. "What happened to the stork? How come I didn't see it?"

"You dumbass!" Ilforte snapped, pushing Grimmjow to Szayel's end of the operating table. "See that incision? See that pink thing?"

"Oh…um…yes…" Grimmjow blanched at the very sight of the incision. What was worse, Szayel was stitching the stretchy uterus, humming a lively tune to himself.

"That's where babies come from." Ilforte said firmly. "The stork story was a cover up for little kids that's pretty much saying 'your parents fucked and they made a kid'."

"Yeeeeahhh." Grimmjow pointed to the door. "I'mma go throw up. Be back later."

It was then everyone noticed Ulquiorra was muttering a prayer in Spanish very quickly, not even pausing for breath. He kept his eyes on the ceiling. Szayel rolled his eyes, hearing every word he was saying due to his proximity to Ulquiorra. Apparently, Ulquiorra was very grateful to be a male.

Meanwhile, at the head of the table, Stark and Halibel were smiling with overwhelming relief, happy parents and pleased that all went well. They were particularly excited when Verona returned with their little girl wrapped in pink blankets. Halibel held Regina, eyes smoldering with content. Stark was peering at their baby with wide, expectant eyes. She had medium brown hair, but other than that, she looked more like a scrunchy tomato with a face.

"She's very cute," Szayel said endearingly from his end of the table.

-

-

The next two days, Halibel had a surplus of visitors. Her fraccion were arguing about who got to hold the baby, to the point where Stark had to shut them up with a sharp reprimand. Grimmjow and Apache visited more than twice a day, and Grimmjow was already spewing wisdom from mouth, nose, eyes, and ears.

"See, Noitora is a crazy motherfucker—"

"_Grimmjow_." Halibel growled.

"Ehehe, sorry—right. Avoid him, Reggie. Also, avoid that hag Barragan, but hopefully he'll die of a heart attack or something before you can actually remember him—"

"_Grimmjow_!" Halibel said austerely. "_Regina _is two days old. Don't start corrupting her so early."

"Also, Zomari is sketch. Don't go near him. He might be a scary black man in disguise. Actually, he _is _a scary black man in disguise."

"Yeah, and Mira Rose is a retard." Apache added with a fervent nod. She smiled at, Regina, who was in her arms and blinking coyly—as a newborn, she had the sea blue eyes all babies had. Apache simpered and tickled Regina's chin. "Mrs. Halibel, Regina might be the most beautiful thing on earth besides you."

"Thank you, Apache." Halibel said, flattered. "I appreciate the visits, you two, but I'd like to rest."

"Oh! Of course."Apache bowed and grabbed Grimmjow's arm, depositing Regina into Halibel's arms. She waved at the proud parents and left the room with Grimmjow.

Of course, something—someone—always had to ruin the happy, peaceful period.

* * *

So...babies. Not my thing. Pregnancy scares me. I mean, it's great and all, but I will never, ever be an OBGYN.

**Note: Regina qualifies as an OC, which I hate. She will be seldom mentioned in the rest of the story. If at all.**

I hope you liked it!


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Green spots, Purple dots

* * *

Grimmjow thought nothing of the pain he felt suddenly while rolling around in the white sand of Hueco Mundo, basking in the pleasant September sun like a cat. No, it did not matter to him that his stomach was hurting with a stabbing pain at all. He was too busy enjoying the nice weather by sunbathing.

"Ah, damn it." He sighed. "I love the sun."

Yes, he did. Since the dog days of summer were over, it was bearable to go outside. In fact, the weather was getting a tad bit chilly now, forecasting a frigid winter.

Late September had brought about an agreeable, easy atmosphere to Las Noches, like the Pax Romana in the Roman Empire. People were getting along, nobody was trying to strangle others, and interactions were smooth and unhurried. The Espada were all smiles, except for Ulquiorra, who apparently lacked the muscles he needed to smile or actually look pleased. But he was an exception. Even Szayel, who had spent most of September PMSing at anyone that looked at him funny was quite content. The weather had improved—it was cooler and the sun didn't scorch the endless desert. In fact, if Hueco Mundo had trees, the leaves would surely be changing colors.

Ever since Aizen had implemented the rule of 'you must go outside at least once a day', more and more Arrancar seemed to be enjoying the wonders of the obese ball of fire that hung in the sky. Also, tanning had become a big deal, as well as picnicking. But that brought patients to Szayel, who had to examine boiled-lobster sunburns that could've been prevented—"What is it with tanning all of a sudden? A tanning bed is a death bed!" he had grumbled to each patient. "Don't be tethered to looking like leather!" he often added.

Grimmjow fished for his bag of chips in his pocket, and was pleased to find they were mostly intact. He popped one into his mouth and barely had time to savor it before a sudden pang of almost unbearable, sharp pain erupted somewhere near his bellybutton. He whimpered and swallowed the half-chewed chip.

"Ow. The hell was that?" He muttered.

Either way, he continued munching on chips and lying around on the sand, staring blankly at the horizon with a relaxed smile on his face. The smile was occasionally marred by a wince as the pain became sharper. It was nothing painkillers couldn't solve. When he found the smarting was affecting his sanity, he popped some painkillers just before dinner. And who had dinner duty?

Ulquiorra, inventor of the Crappy Meal™. Tonight, it seemed he had done a half assed job of nuking cheap vegetables from China in the microwave that he added to 'soup'—lukewarm water with random spices thrown in. For drinks, he gave them tap water with a distinctly metallic taste.

"Are you kidding me?" Szayel fumed when he saw his meal.

"No. It's quite tasty." Ulquiorra said coolly.

"Holy crap, man. You could've at least bought some TV dinners."

"These vegetables are going to give me lead poisoning," Stark said flatly. His comment elicited a snigger from Szayel, who nodded in agreement. He felt this meal would be food poisoning extraordinaire. That, or truly repulsive. Szayel, in a spurt of bravery, raised the spoonful of 'soup' to his lips, and as soon as it touched his tongue he spit it out and tried to suppress the contortions he stomach was suffering from. This 'soup' was far too bitter, far too cold with a revolting aftertaste.

"You call this food?" Szayel seethed. He plucked a saggy, spotted asparagus out of it and was deeply annoyed to find it half frozen.

"It is sustenance, yes." Ulquiorra himself was a bit miffed at Szayel's insinuations that he was not a good cook.

"My ass!" Szayel grabbed the bowl and flung it against the wall. It shattered into hundreds of pieces, and the concoction went flying everywhere. Szayel rose from the table and hissed, "Feed us crap one more time and I swear I will cut you up and eat you for dinner!" and he stomped out of the kitchen.

"Attitude!" Noitora snorted. "Don't feel bad, Ulquiorra. Your Crappy Meals may not be actual food, but they are sustenance if you live on the streets. And guess what? _We don't_."

"It's not…abysmally disgusting…" Halibel murmured, grimacing at the taste of the water. "No, that was a lie. This is something that would not be served at a soup kitchen."

"Just eat it," Ulquiorra said in eerie calm.

"My stomach hurts. I'm not eating this." Grimmjow said with a shake of his head. And from his pocket he produced another bag of chips. Halibel and Stark were green with envy (or nausea) and Ulquiorra looked murderous.

"I went through the trouble of finding food and you ignore my efforts by eating processed potatoes." Ulquiorra said slowly.

"Dude, evidently, you went through no trouble." Grimmjow said through bites of chips.

"Insolence, inadequacy, inconsideration…" Ulquiorra murmured. He had a tendency to list off adjectives or nouns that described the present situation—or person. The dinner culminated with Noitora chugging a tankard of beer to get the taste out of his mouth. Stark concentrated on not throwing up, and Halibel had just given up. Grimmjow was licking the salt and grease from his chips off of his fingers.

"I'm going to be sick." Stark frowned.

"We all are." Halibel said reasonably. "Ulquiorra, please make an effort next time."

Ulquiorra met her gaze, but said nothing. He wouldn't dare to disrespect someone of higher rank with such a cool head. Not at the moment, anyway. He could save that for any other time that Aizen's ceramic bowls weren't in danger.

-

-

"So, dude. You remember that thing you had a while ago when we had to cut you open?" Grimmjow asked Szayel conversationally. It was almost noon the following day, and even though Grimmjow hadn't eaten since dinnertime, he was not the least bit hungry.

"Oh, you mean appendicitis?" Szayel mumbled. He was too busy peering down into the inside of the nuclear reactor, tut-tutting at imperfections only he could have found. Szayel leaned over the railing, almost to the point where he looked like he was going to dive in.

"Yeah, that. What were the symptoms?" Grimmjow gave a million watt smile to make it seem like he wasn't prying, but just curious. He was prying—the painkillers had done nothing, and he was still in pain. But he didn't want to bring that up with Szayel.

"Symptoms vary, but the one you can't have appendicitis without is abdominal pain. Usually, it starts near the bellybutton—that was my case. And damn, did it _hurt_." Szayel replied with a mild grimace. He walked briskly to the other side of the reactor with Grimmjow on his tail. The smile almost fell off Grimmjow's face when Szayel said that.

"And the pain typically moves to the lower right side of your abdomen. The hurt isn't very focused, and it usually become more sharp at once it localizes…as I said previously, the symptoms vary, but abdominal pain is the staple of appendicitis. Haha, get it? Staples are used to close appendectomy incisions? Hehe..."

Grimmjow almost whimpered. His pain had moved to that spot exactly. But no, it couldn't be. Right?

"Sometimes, there's some back pain involved." Szayel started another brisk walk out of the nuclear reactor and nearly shut the pressurized door on Grimmjow. Szayel didn't like people around him when he was doing important things in his lab.

"Oh, that's cool. Anything else?"

"Fever, malaise, nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite…why are you asking me this?" Szayel finally rounded on Grimmjow, eyes narrow and guarded.

"Curiosity!" Grimmjow said brightly. Although he didn't feel as pukey as he did with food poisoning, he felt quite uncomfortable and queasy near his stomach.

"Yes, well, curiosity killed the cat and will kill the dog too." Szayel said coldly. "Do you have any purpose being here?"

"No, not really." Grimmjow dropped the pretense. "Bye!" he ran out clutching his aching side. He didn't need to ask anymore. Grimmjow wasn't feverish, he wasn't puking. Epic win! It couldn't have been appendicitis. Other than the pain, Grimmjow felt fine, even though it had been about twenty four hours.

Grimmjow's day was relatively ordinary. He played video games, trolled on Jonas Brothers forums, Facebooked, the usual. It was a wonderful day. He ended his afternoon by watching reruns of The Office and then headed to the kitchen for dinner, where Noitora's fabulous meal was steaming on the table. But Grimmjow found he didn't want to eat, even though he had skipped lunch and breakfast. Noitora's filet mignon was exquisite, but Grimmjow just didn't want it. That, and he felt worse. An unpleasant warmth made him feel lethargic. He felt weak and there was a permanent, yet vague scowled on his face. Everyone noticed Grimmjow was a bit quieter at the table, grimacing and gingerly placing a hand on the lower right side of his abdomen.

"Why aren't you eating?" Noitora demanded. Because he was pretty much the top chef of Las Noches, anybody who refused his food was automatically stigmatized for life.

"I feel like crap, retard." Grimmjow snapped.

"Well, my food will make you feel better." Noitora said. He raised an eyebrow and shoveled more on Grimmjow's plate.

"Nah…I don't want it…"Grimmjow said weakly, pushing his plate away.

Unfortunately, Szayel was sitting across from Grimmjow. He was watching Grimmjow keenly, but hadn't said anything.

"You're a freak." Noitora muttered. He snatched Grimmjow's plate and handed it to Stark.

"Ugh." Grimmjow groaned. He laughed nervously. "Somebody set a bomb in my gut, I think."

"That's impossible—" Noitora began.

"No, believe me, it's possible. I've done it, hehe."

"You sick fuck!" Noitora shrilled.

Szayel didn't even bother riposting.

Then the strangest thing happened. Minutes later, Grimmjow instantly felt better. The pain lessened significantly, his nausea disappeared. It was as if he had been magically cured. But his appetite was still kept at bay by something he did not know, and would find out later.

Grimmjow enjoyed a gory movie with Tesla and Noitora when a horrid qualm of nausea overcame him with such force that he nearly fell into a swoon. The pain came back, with fury and a burning, sharp sensation. He felt terrible, worse than before.

"Owwww…" he moaned, placing both hands over his side.

"Dude, what the hell's wrong with you?" Noitora asked. He scowled. Grimmjow was displaying strange behavior.

"How am I supposed to know?" Grimmjow whined. "I think I'm dying."

"Well," Noitora said gruffly. "You know what Szayel will do if you go to him."

"He's a scary, scary man." Tesla said quietly.

"Hardly a man." Noitora corrected. "How about we play Grand Theft Auto? That always makes me feel better."

Grimmjow's response was another histrionic groan and curling up into a ball. Noitora paused the movie and studied Grimmjow.

"I think we need to take you to Szayel, even if he is messed up." Noitora said reluctantly.

"Yes." Tesla said solemnly. He extended a hand and pulled Grimmjow up. Noitora and Tesla hauled him to the lab, hoping Szayel was there, as it was a few minutes past midnight. The highlight of the journey was Grimmjow randomly throwing up in the middle of the hallway, eliciting a squeal from Tesla and a loud stream of cusswords from Noitora. They pressed on, banging into the lab.

"Hey, crazy fucker!" Noitora called, referring to Szayel. Grimmjow undid himself from Noitora and Tesla's grasp and hobbled over to the nearest trashcan.

Szayel appeared a few seconds later from a wide hallway, yawning, coffee in hand. It took a while for him to process the puking Grimmjow, fidgety Tesla, and mildly inebriated Noitora.

"Uhm, excuse me, but what the fuck happened here?" Szayel asked, perplexed. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He was just heading back to his room for a few hours of sleep.

"He's sick!" Tesla stated the obvious and pointed to Grimmjow, bent over the trashcan, looking completely agonized.

"Well, that's a given." Szayel said snidely, making his way to Grimmjow. "Are you alright?"

"Oh, God. The pain!" Grimmjow moaned, wiping sweat off his forehead. "I'm dying, Szayel, seriously. I'm going to die here." He clutched Szayel's lab coat. Szayel did not make a move to brush him away.

"List your symptoms." Szayel said coolly.

"Are you blind?" Grimmjow demanded. "I just puked my guts out, there's an explosion in my side, I feel like shit, and I haven't eaten in forever."

Szayel raised his eyebrows. He waved his fraccion over, pushing a gurney. Grimmjow settled himself on it, jabbering breathlessly as Szayel pushed him along. Noitora and Tesla followed, concerned.

"And-and then I felt better, but now I'm in hell!" Grimmjow clasped his side in an explosion of hurt. He howled in pain. Szayel pressed a hand to Grimmjow's sweaty forehead—he was running quite a fever.

"Sounds to me like appendicitis," Szayel said with a scowl. "How long have you been in pain?"

"Like, almost two days."

The corner of Szayel's mouth twitched downward in disapproval. Not a good sign, especially with this severity of pain, unless Grimmjow was making a scene. Now, in the exam room, Szayel could conduct the examination.

"I am going to start with the left side." Szayel said. He began prodding Grimmjow's abdomen. "Does this hurt?"

"No, not there."

Szayel moved more to the right, near his navel. No reaction from Grimmjow. But Szayel prodded his right side, Grimmjow gasped sharply and pushed Szayel away, almost tearing up.

"OW!" he screamed.

"It hurt, didn't it?" Szayel said gently. "Now, I am going to press a certain spot. Tell me if it hurts more when I press down or when I release." Szayel finger drifted to McBurney's point, a place about two thirds the measure from the bellybutton to the hip. With his index finger, Szayel pressed firmly. Grimmjow winced and shifted. Szayel let go, and Grimmjow gave a low, tortured moan and rolled onto his side.

"Hm. I find it very likely that it's appendicitis, but I'd like to get a CT, as appendicitis can be mimicked by many other illnesses."

"Isn't that thing with the hole that I got when _you _fucked up my diaphragm?" Grimmjow asked tensely.

"That's right, but this time it'll be a bit different. " Szayel said. He wheeled him quickly to the scanner and accommodated Grimmjow on the little bed. It was difficult, however, because Grimmjow refused to cooperate due to the pain. Once he was settled, Szayel dropped the bomb.

"Now, hold your arm out…" Szayel had a little cannula in hand. And if Grimmjow saw it, he'd freak out. Luckily, Grimmjow did as told. Szayel prodded the inside of his elbow, and found a perfect vein. It was taut, like a garden hose.

"What are you doing?" Grimmjow asked tremulously.

"Yeah, why are you holding a needle?" Noitora demanded.

Before Grimmjow could react, Szayel penetrated his skin with the cannula and taped it down to Grimmjow's arm, swiftly bringing the arm over Grimmjow's head.

"Needle?" Grimmjow asked hoarsely.

"No, no. Hold still." Szayel smiled sympathetically. He knew the pain Grimmjow was in. Whisking Noitora and Tesla off to the room adjacent to the scanner, the scan was free to begin. Szayel was watching the computer screen intently as the first planar x-ray imaged showed up—Grimmjow's abdomen and pelvis, bones neat and in order, vague outline of his intestines. Szayel bustled back to the scanner.

"Now for the fun part. I'm going to inject contrast. This iodine contrast will light up your intestines and stomach so that I can better see what's wrong. However, upon injection, the contrast will make you feel unpleasant. You'll get a warm, fuzzy feeling in your insides."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Grimmjow muttered.

Szayel chuckled. He injected the contrast into the cannula through a tube and hurried back to the scan room, where he started the second scan.

Grimmjow felt the warmth around his neck, like a heated blanket, and it spread to his abdomen and all way the down to his hips. He felt nasty, and a strong qualm of nausea and dizziness came over him. Mixed with fear, anxiety, and general discomfort, the nausea seemed to escalate.

"Szayel, I'm not feeling too good." He said weakly.

"You'll be fine. Just five more seconds." Szayel said reassuringly.

But those five seconds were torture. As soon as Szayel removed the tube, Grimmjow began to feel a bit better.

"Breathe deeply." Szayel ordered. "Now, let me check on those images."

But the images proved to be unexpected. Grimmjow's appendix was nowhere to be found. But the way the surrounding intestines lit up like Christmas trees was a sure giveaway of the grave situation—Grimmjow's appendix had ruptured. Szayel felt his face drain of blood. The appendix had ruptured, scattering infection over his body cavity. Sepsis would quickly follow.

"You two, get me Halibel, Stark, and Ulquiorra. Stat." Szayel commanded. Noitora and Tesla exchanged confused, concerned glances.

"What's happening?" Tesla asked.

"Something bad." Szayel returned to Grimmjow and helped him onto the gurney.

"What'd that freaking scan say?" Grimmjow asked. He cringed at the pangs of excruciating hurt that came again.

"The good news is that I couldn't see your appendix. The bad news is that I couldn't see it because it has ruptured. You're going straight to the OR. This is a real emergency." Szayel said urgently. Grimmjow didn't even want to ask, and that was good thing. He'd have a panic attack if Szayel told him what the problem was. Basically, Grimmjow was walking around dead if they didn't open him up soon.

-

-

They burst into the operating room, where Grimmjow was hastily moved on the operating table (not without cursing—his pain was getting worse and worse).

"It hurts." Grimmjow whined.

"I know, I know." Szayel said distractedly.

"No, my wrists and back hurt." Grimmjow said weakly.

"Are you—are you serious?" Szayel stuttered. He stopped to gaze at Grimmjow.

"You think I'm lying?" Grimmjow voice's came out faint and breathy. It was so unlike him that a wave of worry came over Szayel.

Of course, he caught his symptoms on time—but not as on time as Szayel thought. He found the petechiae immediately—small, purple dots on the skin that were a sign of bacteremia, which is defined as bacteria in the blood stream. The red flag was raised. Sepsis had already begun. Because Grimmjow's appendix was ruptured, he'd have to stay in the lab for a week under a heavy dosage of antibiotics. Of course, this meant Szayel would be able to do a CVC—central venous catheterization. But that could wait until the end of the surgery, or even during.

To his delight, Stark, Halibel, and Ulquiorra had shown up, sleepy and confused but ready to go. Especially Halibel. She knew exactly what a ruptured appendix entailed.

"I'm dying, I'm dying…" Grimmjow gasped.

"No, you're not." Stark said nervously. Technically, he was. But Stark didn't know that. "Just relax."

Szayel approached Halibel holding the CVC kit in hand. He dropped his voice to a whisper and said, "Sepsis has already begun. I want you to start the CVC—instructions are inside."

She nodded and got to work immediately. Tearing the kit open and seeing what was inside didn't daunt her one bit. Thick, wide needles, tubes, and cannulae.

Indeed, Grimmjow relaxed when he succumbed to the anesthesia, and Halibel got to work. She knew exactly what to do. She'd start the CVC in the subclavian vein, located just under the clavicle, or collarbone. Halibel prodded just over it, and felt the pulsations of the thick vein. With the fat needle on a hefty syringe, Halibel punctured his skin and went in at steep angle, going just under the clavicle. Then, she felt a pop.

"Szayel?"

"Yes?" he said. Szayel was holding the scalpel an inch above the skin.

"I felt a pop."

"Good, you're in. Draw back on the syringe. If it's maroon, you got the vein."

Halibel did as told, and was flushed with exhilaration when plumes of maroon filled the syringe. She popped the syringe off, leaving the needle in place, and dark venous blood dribbled out. The guidewire was next—she slid it through the needle and threaded it in, poking something stiff. She pulled back, suspecting she had prodded his heart. Holding the guidewire firmly, Halibel pulled out the needle and quickly threaded a long, thicker tube of plastic over the guidewire to dilate the vein's opening. With no further ado, she plucked the floppy, flexible central line catheter out of the kit and threaded it all the way through over the guidewire. Halibel carefully and gently removed the guidewire and the dilator, leaving the central line in place, and sutured the line to Grimmjow's chest through the holes on two little wings it had on the side. She noticed the central line had three extra tubes—lumen—connected. Luckily, Ilforte took over and she returned to Szayel's side.

Szayel, as the lead surgeon, had wasted no time. The incision was made while Grimmjow was being intubated, and it was an incision reminiscent of the one Ulquiorra had from his splenectomy, though this one extended nearly to the pubic bone. Stark was entrusted with the duty of holding the incision open with the metal retractors, and when he pulled them apart there was a collective gasp from everyone but Szayel, who gave a low whistle instead.

"That's not pretty." He said flatly.

Not pretty at all.

Opening Grimmjow up had revealed red, inflamed intestines and small abscesses. Along with that, the remnants of his appendix, a sickly yellow color, were scattered here and there. The smell was putrid, sharp, and mildly nauseating from the decay the contents were causing.

"Grimm's BP is getting low," Ilforte announced over the beeps of the cardiac monitor. "I'm going to start the saline drip."

"Ciprofloxacin and amoxicillin for antibiotics. Epi for his heart." Szayel said. "Up the oxygen too."

"What exactly happened here?" Stark asked, repulsed.

"His appendix ruptured…" Szayel trailed off as he inserted tubes in the abscesses to drain them. In his right hand he clasped the suction firmly, while his left probed here and there searching for more pus and sites of infection. His hands came back bloody and drenched in pus. He felt many other abscesses forming as well, smooth, raised bumps with a small little craters in the middle.

"Szayel, are you right handed?" Ulquiorra asked. Count on Ulquiorra to notice things like that. He had been watching Szayel's hands for the longest time and came to the conclusion that Szayel's dexterity was quite ambiguous.

"No, I'm left handed." Szayel replied.

"A lefty! A real lefty!" Noitora exclaimed. His exclamation surprised everyone. Noitora hadn't left yet. He, had, however, tied a surgical mask around his eyes as well as his mouth and nose. A clever move. "According to , lefties are children of Satan that can't do anything right."

"Obviously—they're left handed for a reason, Noitora." Ulquiorra put in snidely. He was proud of his little play on words.

Szayel glowered at Noitora, and his orange eyes glinted with hatred. He did, however, appreciate Ulquiorra's quip.

"Really? Well, according to _actual scientific research_, those who bang different girls at regular intervals are ninety six percent more likely to contract AIDS."

"Owned, bro. Owned." Ilforte snickered.

"Left handed…" Ulquiorra murmured, returning to the situation at hand.

"In surgery, you're supposed to hold suction in your non dominant hand while the dominant hand is working directly." Szayel said shortly. He returned to the opening. Halibel was holding guts out of the way while the suction cleared up the remains of the appendix.

"Szayel, I'm going to sterilize the cecum and suture it," Halibel said. Stark moved pulled the retractors farther back, bringing the large, pouch-like cecum into view. It was the big part of the large intestine. At once, she began to clear up the infection with the suction. Although it was a relatively simple device, it was one of the most important used in surgery. It would siphon blood, pus, any sort of liquid that needed to be removed. Grasping the needle holder confidently, she made two quick stitches at the tip of the cecum, where the appendix used to be.

Even though Stark was trying to focus on the metallic shine of the retractors, he could see Grimmjow's guts and pus out of the corner of his eye. The squelching and sucking sounds the suction made was extremely disconcerting as well—he twitched every time a loud one came. Ulquiorra was watching with a look of utter disgust and revulsion, looking away whenever Szayel or Halibel had to displace body organs to get to a particularly nasty abscess. Noitora hadn't run out yet. His loyalty to Grimmjow as a friend hadn't wavered one bit. That, and he was smart enough to have his eyes covered. Tesla looked like he was about to faint, but stood firmly on the ground.

And about one and half hours later of painstaking, meticulous abdominal lavage, Szayel and Halibel made the decision to close him up. They had searched and cleaned every crevice, behind every organ, and just about the whole abdominal cavity. It was nearly three in the morning now.

"And now we wait." Szayel said solemnly as he stapled the incision closed. Halibel nodded. Slathering some antibiotic gel over it, he finished off the surgery by slapping some gauze on.

"Ilforte, start a peripheral line, please." Szayel said.

"What's a peripheral line?" Stark asked.

"It's like a CVC, but smaller and placed in the arm or leg." Szayel explained. He stifled a yawn and went to the scrub room with everyone else on his heels. They scrubbed in silence until Tesla popped the question.

"Will Grimmjow be alright?"

"Well…" Szayel paused. "He had sepsis, a complication of appendiceal rupture. Sepsis occurs when bacteria enters the bloodstream, and once that occurs the infection is very difficult to fight. We're packing drugs into him through his IV, CVC, and PICC lines but it's hard to clear up an infection like that." Szayel said. He yawned and shouldered his lab coat. "You guys can leave if you'd like. Grimmjow will be awake soon, but he'll be so drugged up he won't even know who is."

The horrified expression on the others' faces was a clear sign that they had missed Szayel's poor attempt at a joke.

"Kidding, kidding." Szayel said gently, holding the door open to the scrub room for them.

"I'm going to stay here," Noitora said sternly. Out of his pocket, he produced Pixie Stix™, Vault™, and Snickers™. "See, Pixie Stix are like crack for kids, Vault is basically steroids, and the Snickers are for the lulz."

Szayel frowned, perplexed, but smiled vaguely nonetheless.

"That's very kind of you, Noitora." Halibel said. She appeared to be deeply moved. Stark smiled uncomfortably.

"I'm staying too," Tesla said.

Szayel sighed and led them to recovery. Grimmjow's bed was curtained off from the others, but upon moving it aside they were shocked to see Grimmjow with three intravenous lines, pulse ox on a finger, and a band aid pressed over a cotton ball. Ilforte had decided to get a blood cell count, it seemed. Grimmjow also had the tubes of the nasal cannula, strung behind his ears. He looked weak and pale, a sorry sight compared to the vigorous, ruddy-faced Grimmjow.

Ilforte appeared and shoved papers in Szayel's hand. The results from the blood test proved the diagnosis of sepsis, but now that Grimmjow was fairly stable and under heavy dosage of drugs, they'd just have to wait.

"Extra oxygen will be necessary for a while," Szayel explained, indicating the nasal cannula. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" Szayel hopped onto the bed beside Grimmjow's and made himself comfortable. He was out cold in five minutes, leaving the others to watch Grimmjow until he woke up. And about thirty minutes later, Grimmjow moved.

"Hey, dude. You alive?" Noitora asked, prodding Grimmjow's side.

Grimmjow's lip twitched, but his eyes remained closed.

"Chuck Norris is coming to get you."

Grimmjow almost smiled. And then he groaned slightly, shifting.

"Goddammit, bitch, wake the fuck up!" Noitora said hysterically. Then something hit hard the back of Noitora's head. He turned around to see Szayel propped up on one elbow, lying on the bed. In hand, he had a few pens, and Szayel looked murderous.

"Wake me up one more time and these pens will be through your neck." Szayel said sharply. With that, he went back to sleep.

"Epic win," Grimmjow whispered, cracking an eye open.

"Welcome back." Halibel said heartily.

"Wh-what happened?" Grimmjow couldn't speak above a whisper at the moment. He was too weak, too drugged up to do much more.

"Ask him." Noitora indicated Szayel with a thumb over his shoulder. "Wait, let me ask. SZAYEL! Grimmjow wants to ask you a question."

Like a robot, Szayel sat up and faced Grimmjow. He slid off the bed reluctantly and approached Grimmjow's bedside, a stony look on his face.

"Your appendix ruptured, which led to sepsis—you're not off the hook, though. We have you with a CVC, peripherally inserted central catheter—PICC, for short; and a regular IV. You'll have to stay here for ten days."

In any other occasion, Grimmjow would've thrown a fit. He simply nodded. But then, his eyes widened when he caught sight of the CVC in his chest.

"Holy shit…" he said, pointing to the CVC. "The hell is that?" and then, seeing the PICC line, "Dude, oh my God, how many fucking needles are in me?"

"Three." Szayel said shortly. He decided to change the subject. "Because of the nature of the surgery, your belly will be a bit swollen. And you won't be eating for a while."

"Damn it…" Grimmjow muttered.

"That's what you get when you put off medical problems!" Szayel snapped, eyes flashing with anger. Grimmjow couldn't really respond to that. He was feeling bad and didn't feel like arguing with a sleep-deprived, mildly insane scientist. "Well." Szayel adjusted his glasses reflexively. "Let me know if you need anything. I'll have my fraccion showing up here every four hours to get your vitals and blood." Szayel turned on his heel to leave.

"What? Why?" Grimmjow demanded.

"I'm not going to let a fellow Espada die." Szayel said over his shoulder. And with that, he left the room.

* * *

I like this chapter. Next chapter, the victim will be...

Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated. Short or long, reviews are never wrong.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Dividing By Zero

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Grimmjow's recovery had gone relatively well, even though he was a 'problem patient'. Any time his blood had to be drawn he'd throw a fit and nearly go on rampage. At one point, he almost ripped out the CVC. Grimmjow moaned and groaned about pain, discomfort, and boredom, despite the piles of magazines and video games sitting at his bedside. Coaxing him out of bed was such a problem that he had to be pulled out of bed and forced to walk around to keep the blood flow to his legs going. Grimmjow even sat down on the floor and began to sleep in the middle of his walks. Maddening as it was, Szayel managed to get him to cooperate by the fifth day. Grimmjow's constant complaints about missing food went unheard by Szayel, and Grimmjow had a variety of visitors through his stay. He told exaggerated, histrionic tales of his appendicitis and sought not sympathy from others but food. Nobody succeeded in getting past Szayel. Too many times Szayel had spotted Arrancar and fellow Espada slinking into his lab and down the post op hallways—"You! What are you hiding?" had been said much more than Szayel would've liked. Other than that, the scar healed nicel…

"I'm back, bitches!" Grimmjow flung the doors to the kitchen open, stomping in and making a beeline for the fridge. He hadn't eaten real food—candy, chips, ice cream, and burgers—in the longest time. Szayel forced antibiotics and vitamins on him, which Grimmjow classified as fake food. His food pyramid placed vegetables in the top tier. The second tier contained fruits and dairy. Third tier, carbs and meat. The final, largest tier was fat food.

"I knew it wouldn't last." Ulquiorra said flatly, looking up at the ceiling, as if imploring God to put an end to his misery. All had been so wonderfully quiet the past week or so. Ulquiorra had been, for once, truly comfortable in Las Noches. Even the wild parties Noitora threw had been put on hiatus those eleven days.

Noitora rose from the table and clapped sincerely, smirking.

"It's about time that sick fuck let you out of there." Noitora said savagely. He flung an arm around Grimmjow's shoulders and pounded his fist into his head, forcing a violent noogie on the convalescent Grimmjow.

"I know, right?" Grimmjow said through a mouthful of cool whip. On his hand and crook of his elbow there were bruises from the catheters. He was thin and paler than usual, but well enough to be walking around, free from antibiotics and needles. Sort of. Szayel was still forcing amoxicillin on him.

"Did you learn your lesson?" Ulquiorra said coldly.

"Yeah." Grimmjow replied. "I learned not to start screaming about zombies unless I want to see Szayel pointing a ray gun at my head. I also learned not to make threats to him, because then you get Valiumed." Grimmjow smiled stupidly. "I told him to go suck a dude's dick and he got so mad he punched me in the face and then Valiumed me."

"You deserved it." Ulquiorra said. And then, in mockery of Szayel, "Science first!" It was a grotesquely accurate imitation of Szayel. Condescending smile, head tipped to side. And with a cloying little wag of the finger, Ulquiorra had the gesture complete. But Noitora remained the master of mockery, as he called himself. His version of "Science first!" was so accurate that it was eerie.

"I guess that means zombies exist." Noitora murmured. He shrugged. "Whatever. So, want to play Grand Theft Auto?"

"Not really, I want to go to rave party." Grimmjow said thoughtfully. He hopped onto the island and made himself comfortable on it, slathering Cool Whip on a random doughnut that was lying nearby. He downed it in two obscenely large bites as he contemplated his activities for the day. "I want to dance to dem club beats. But I'm not allowed to do anything physical."

"Well, it's not like physical stuff is fun, unless it's sex or dancing." Noitora said with a grimace. He returned his attention to his laptop, on which he was buying things (sex toys) from Ebay with Ulquiorra's credit card, a bad move since Ulquiorra was in the room. But on the plus side, he hadn't noticed. He also hadn't noticed his open wallet lying on the table or the moustache drawn on his real world driver's license (for emergencies only, Aizen had said). "Let's see, it's mid October…" Noitora hummed pleasantly.

Grimmjow looked at the ceiling and absentmindedly scratched his arm. And then he snatched the laptop from Noitora and went straight to Facebook. Ah, Facebook. An extremely popular website for the Arrancar. Hell, even Ulquiorra had a Facebook, and to everyone's surprise, he did use it, but mainly for replying to the trolling Grimmjow regurgitated on Ulquiorra's page.

"That lab was creepy as hell." Grimmjow said, gnawing on a donut. He paused for a moment to accept a friend request from a stranger with stoner eyes and a hairy brown beard. "It was so cold."

"That's why I never go in there." Noitora muttered. "Plus, I've been pretty lucky when it comes to diseases."

"Well, no shit." Grimmjow said fiercely. "There was a plus, however. I slept like all day, no joke."

"Good morning." A refreshing voice said.

Grimmjow and Noitora's heads snapped to the door, smiling a bit when they saw their buddy Halibel. Halibel looked like she had just woken up from a long, restful night of sleep. Her stylish bob was mussed, but just enough so that it was still extraordinarily chic, and, in Noitora's opinion, sexy. She had that content, sleepy look to her. A pink bathrobe was hanging loosely off her shoulders, and he made her way over to the table.

"'Sup?" Noitora greeted with a little nod.

"Nothing. How are you?" Halibel replied in a perfunctory manner.

"The usual." Noitora replied. He then inclined his head toward Grimmjow. "This mofo just got out of prison."

"It's not a prison." Halibel said flatly. She had never had to stay very long in Szayel's lab, thank God. "It was quiet without you."

"Must've sucked, huh?" Grimmjow said with a devious smirk.

Halibel hummed and brushed off Grimmjow's remark, staring into space with a void expression. She wasn't hungry, and it was already eleven thirty. The day lacked plans and fun, but it was nice to have nothing to do. On the plus side, Aizen was enjoying wine tasting in southern France, which explained the Halloween decorations lining the halls. Ulquiorra himself resembled a Halloween decoration, which made him the butt of most Twilight/Halloween jokes nowadays—"Hey, Ulquiorra? Can you sparkle for us?" "Shit, son! You scared me there—I thought you were a ghost."

And the consequences had been expected. Now, instead of hating everybody, he hated everything. This antagonism was only temporary. As soon as the gaudy holiday passed, Ulquiorra would snap back to his normal state.

"I'm going to dress up as that pedo from Naruto™." Noitora said with a wave of his hand.

"You don't need to." Halibel said dryly.

"Haha, you're hilarious." Noitora said sarcastically. "How about you, Grimmjow?"

"I'm going to dress up as a tool and or douchebag, like the dudes on Tool Academy." Grimmjow smirked. "Or T-Pain."

"Oh, wow." Halibel said with a frown. Why couldn't they come up with normal costumes? Honestly.

"Ulquiorra should be Sweeney Todd." Noitora pointed out.

"No, that'll get us all killed. Edward Scissorhands would be more appropriate." Halibel said candidly.

"But Ulquiorra hates people, like Good Old Sweeney. Scissorhands is a pansy because he's nice." Grimmjow said loudly.

"If he we tell him to dress up as Sweeney, he'll think it perfectly fine to massacre people." Halibel said coolly.

"Nah dude, screw it—he's going to be Batman, that's final." Grimmjow said, slamming a fist on the table. A mad grin was spreading on his face.

"I would like to inform you that I am _right here_." Ulquiorra said in a deathly low voice. Halibel jumped and looked over her shoulder, only see a highly annoyed Ulquiorra leaning against the counter, with sharp eyes narrowed in irritation. His arms were folded stiffly against his chest. "What an inane, pointless celebration." Ulquiorra said in a heavy tone, shaking his head.

"Shut up, fag." Grimmjow snapped, rising from his chair. "Only kool kidz like Halloween, am I right, Noitora?"

"Hell yes!" Noitora said in a shrill voice. "And Halibel here is dressing up as Malibu Barbie! Or a dirty whore, maybe nudist, perhaps Lady Gaga."

Halibel declined with a perplexed scowl. "I'm not going to do this."

"Damn you both!" Grimmjow seethed, pointing accusing fingers at them. What was wrong with them? At the wrong moment, Szayel walked in humming a song, nose buried in some papers tucked neatly in a manila folder.

"And he's going to be Jeffree Starr, the ultimate homo of the world." Grimmjow said loudly. He pointed to Szayel and laughed as loud as humanly possible. Ulquiorra winced at the sound.

"I don't think so." Szayel said loftily with a little wave of his free hand. "I'm dressing up as Einstein, but we all know I'm more intelligent, more novel, and sexier."

"And infinitely more pedantic." Ulquiorra murmured.

Szayel threw a nasty look at Ulquiorra before sitting down primly. Unfortunately, he was man hugged by Grimmjow as soon as he crossed his legs and took a sip of coffee that was nearby. It was as if Grimmjow had forgotten about all the torture he had suffered under Szayel's care.

"Oh my God, I'm so happy!" Grimmjow said with a huge smile. "Another cool kid." And then, he let go and smacked Szayel on the back. Szayel's left eye twitched—_ow_. That hurt. A stinging sensation radiated down his back.

"So it'll be me, you, Mila Rose, Apache, Ilforte, Szayel, and Tesla. You know what? Halibel, you're coming too. You have two choices—Lady Gaga or redneck whore."

"Fine!" Halibel caved in. "Lady Gaga it is."

"And Ulquiorra, you're Batman, no objections." Grimmjow said sharply. "And Stark can be Jesus." True, Stark bore an uncanny resemblance to Jesus, but Stark looked a little angrier than Jesus and was nowhere near as generous or as pious as Jesus. They planned to bust in to his room later to announce their decision.

"So…who has kitchen duty tonight?" Grimmjow asked suddenly.

"Go to the calendar posted on the fridge and check." Halibel said, gesturing to the fridge. Grimmjow lumbered over to the fridge and scanned the calendar for October eighteenth. Noitora had written his name in his unique penmanship. It was relatively loopy, of a medium size, but each letter word was a combo of graceful, curving lines and thick straight lines.

"It's your turn, Noit. Cook extra, fucking Ulquiorra's on duty tomorrow and we all know he's an excellent chef." Grimmjow's sarcasm heightened nastily as his sentence continued. Ulquiorra sighed in irritation but said nothing of it.

Noitora smirked. He rolled up the sleeves of his jacket, rose from his seat, and made a shooing motion with his hands.

"Yeah…" he paused and drew a breath. "This isn't going to work. All of you need to leave. Now."

"Why?" Grimmjow demanded indignantly. Ulquiorra and Halibel, however, were already out the door and on their way. They didn't want to get involved with Noitora.

"Because," Noitora's eyes flashed with anger. "I can't cook with you bastards watching me. I need silence."

"Whatever, bro." Grimmjow snorted as he left the kitchen. Szayel followed suit, leaving Noitora alone. Excellent. At once, Noitora got to work. Beef wellington took quite a while to make. In five minutes, mushrooms, shallots, thyme leaves, garlic, olive oil, salt, and pepper were arranged and measured out neatly on the kitchen island. The duxelles would have to be absolutely scrumptious. Noitora, as habitual drug user and dealer, had an affinity for measurements. He never estimated; it was practically taboo. That was for lazy bastards, he thought. He was a perfectionist to the point where all measurements would have to be exact. But as he progressed in his cooking adventure, a feeling of lightheadedness crept up on him. This always happened to him with he stood for long periods of time, so he simply sat down while he sautéed the duxelles. Noitora was almost used to this feeling, but an odd, pointed fatigue hit him shortly after, followed by overpowering dizziness. Thinking his blood sugar was getting low, Noitora popped a sugar cube he found in the pantry into his mouth. He frowned at its saccharine taste and crystalline texture, but immediately returned to his culinary art. As he looked down at the saucepan, sizzling merrily, he was disconcerted to see it was tipping from side to side and that the spatula he held was shaking violently as his clammy hand. Flinging the spatula aside in a burst of anger, Noitora realized something was distinctly wrong. Glittery patterns speckled his hazy vision. Noitora rubbed his eyes and leaned against the counter, feeling downright miserable. The sizzling was beginning to sound farther and farther away, his legs were taking on a jello-like consistency. A loud whooshing was in his ears, in perfect tune with a smothered, throbbing heartbeat that seemed to escalate in sound and speed as the seconds ticked by deafeningly. Noitora opened his eyes and was met with a vision composed entirely of silvery dots and tendrils. And not five seconds later Noitora's limp body hit the kitchen tile with a thud.

-

-

Stark was hungry. Well, not so much hungry as bored. Grimmjow had stormed into his room forcing Halloween nonsense on him, and Stark had no choice to accept. Because it was early on a Sunday afternoon, there was nothing on TV. Stark didn't feel like reading, playing video games, or doing anything else, really. Food would pass time and make him feel full. Full enough so that he could nap until the evening. Halibel had reprimanded him several times for taking on such a potentially destructive habit, but he paid no mind to her reprimands. Stark arrived at the double doors that led to the kitchen, and as he opened them he felt he was opening Pandora's box. In a sense, he was—Stark was met with a menagerie of aromas, so wild and esoteric he took a moment to sniff the air deeply. But the acrid smell of burnt food came next. With a jolt, Stark realized the stove was on fire. Instinct told him to get the fuck out, logic told him to put the fire out, and intuition told him to get Halibel to deal with it. All three warred within him, but logic took the win.

Stark approached the raging fire carefully, eyes wide. He sprinted to the pantry and tore a fire extinguisher out from under a mound of boxes and bags. Without even thinking, he pulled the pin out and flung it to side, jamming on the lever and aiming a steady, strong stream of foam at the fire, moving it around wildly until the fire was out. Stark dropped the fire extinguisher and placed hand on the counter for support. He felt stupid for getting so worked up, but a fucking fire was consuming the kitchen…no, just the stove. But it was still kind of a big deal. In general, fires only occurred in Szayel's lab, and they were extremely contained and controlled. It was then Stark noticed a figure on the floor. He yelped in surprise when he recognized Noitora, so pale and clammy that he sharply contrasted the silver tile in the kitchen. Stark's immediate thought was that he was dead, but after common sense beat assumption out of his head, Stark figured Noitora had passed out. Here, intuition prevailed—Stark did a rare sonido to Szayel's lab. Stark never sonido'd because it made him feel enervated, and he muttered a curse when he found himself in a greenhouse the size of at least four football fields. Not only did he just place himself in some virtually unknown part of the lab, he had no idea where Szayel was. But he was very pleased to hear the unmistakable cadence of Szayel's voice, which sounded distinctly relaxed and relatively close. Stark shoved two huge purple leaves out of his way and climbed under a series of roots or branches. He popped out somewhere else, but did manage to find Szayel, having a lively conversation with a Venus flytrap. This Venus flytrap happened to be the size of basketball. It was swaying in a way that made it look like it was nodding.

"Yes!" Szayel said clapping his hands enthusiastically. "I agree! The Kardashian sisters are such idiots…as for Jersey Shore, I'd have to say the Situation is absolutely hateful." He paused and waited for his plant's reply. "Snookie is gross. That pouf is so out of style—can you say French Revolution? Honestly, Marie Antoinette was the last—" Szayel stopped abruptly as soon as he saw Stark standing there, gaping. Szayel blinked his keen orangey eyes blankly and nervously adjusted his glasses.

"Oh…hello, Stark…" he mumbled awkwardly.

"Hi…" Stark couldn't stop the next question from erupting from his mouth. "Were you just having a conversation with your plant?"

"As a matter of fact, I was." Szayel said with a dignified nod.

"Okay. Well, then." Stark felt like crying. He didn't know Szayel was this insane. It took every bit of self control to not curl up into a fetal position and sob then and there. He had had far too much for one day.

"What do you need?" Szayel inquired in a distant, wary tone.

"Noitora...I found him. The kitchen was on fire… in the kitchen." Stark trailed off. A magenta vine was swaying like a cobra prepared to strike over Szayel's left shoulder. Szayel was giving Stark an expectant look, unaware of the vine that was carefully creeping closer to his neck.

"Szayel—"

Szayel backhanded the vine, stunning it, took hold of it and flung it somewhere.

"Flo! That's enough!" he barked. "That's the tenth time this week. I do not appreciate such games." He turned to Stark. "Yes, what were you saying?"

Stark dug the heels of his hand into his eyes and said, with controlled anger, "Noitora fainted in the kitchen."

"Hm." Szayel's eyebrows went up in an expectant, intrigued gesture. "Let's go."

And Stark was deeply chagrinned to see Szayel disappear right before his eyes in a sonido.

-

-

Stark briefly explained the fire situation to Szayel, who, upon crossing the threshold of the kitchen, found it very unlikely that Noitora had been poisoned by an excess of smoke, as the air was decently clear. Szayel rushed to Noitora's side at once, taking note the weak pulse and clammy skin. Noitora had just come to his senses, and he laid there, too weak to move or make sense of the situation.

"Ugh…what happened?" Noitora inquired staring at the ceiling with a confused expression on his face. "Did I OD on H again?"

"I would hope not, but you did pass out." Szayel said gently. "Stark, get him some water."

"I'm not thirsty." Noitora said with a grimace. "Seriously, what happened? I don't remember anything except for my…" Noitora's eyes strayed to the blackened stove. "Well. What was my duxelles before that fucking fire. When did the fire happen?"

"My guess is that the saucepan caught fire after you fainted. Which reminds me, do you know why you fainted?"

Szayel offered a hand to Noitora, who accepted it. Szayel pulled Noitora up in one fluid move. Noitora was a bit unsteady, and chose to bear his weight against the kitchen island.

"No idea, bro." Noitora muttered, eyes wide and. "I ate. I wasn't overheated. Nor was it my blood sugar."

Szayel nodded. His eyes narrowed as he ruled out conditions and illnesses. He peered at Noitora over the rims of his glasses, taking Noitora's physical features into consideration. He was long and lanky, narrow faced and extremely thin, but not malnourished or emaciated. He was thin as Szayel, but disproportionate to the point where Noitora's case seemed extreme.

"Noitora, give me your hand." Szayel commanded.

Noitora held out a shaking white hand distinctly resembling a spider. Long, bony fingers quivered before Szayel's eyes. Szayel took hold of his hand and examined it. He scratched off a few more disorders from his mental list of the cause of Noitora's sudden faint, and immediately added one.

"Noitora, I'll have to run some tests on you." Szayel said, giving Noitora a radiant smile. "It won't hurt."

"Whatever." Noitora shrugged and followed Szayel, unsteady but just fine. Stark followed for no reason. He didn't exactly want to be left alone in a smoky kitchen with nothing to do. He brought up the rear of the procession into Szayel's lab. At once Szayel veered left into the medical suite. He slowed down his lively strides and looked down at the floor, where little red dots, completely opaque, glistened under the light—blood. He had a visitor!

"Oh, seems like someone is here by now." Szayel said with an amused little chuckle.

Right then, Grimmjow popped his head out of one of the examination rooms. He looked intent and motivated, blue eyes sharp and alert.

"I found him, Ulquiorra!" he screamed.

Szayel frowned and wandered into the exam room, where Ulquiorra was sitting gingerly on the gurney. He was pressing a towel to his face, and the bloodstains on his clothes brought conjectures to Szayel's mind. Had he and Grimmjow gotten into a fight? And why hadn't Grimmjow freaked out yet? Blood was on the floor, walls, all down Ulquiorra's front.

"What happened here?" Szayel asked with a scowl.

"So Ulquiorra and I were going to the kitchen while Noit was cooking to get some grub, when Ulqui here sneezes like a mofo and the next we know there's blood everywhere! Also he is apparently choking on his blood, but that's why I brought him here." At that moment, Ulquiorra gave a prim, yet strangled cough.

"Well…" Szayel scratched his head. "How long have you been bleeding, Ulquiorra?"

"An hour."

"Any signs of letting up?" Szayel asked.

Ulquiorra shook his head, eyes piercing Szayel's soul with a deathly glare.

"I have to run some tests on Noitora first." Szayel said. "But I think you should come with me. Both of you."

While they trekked to a larger examination room Grimmjow demanded an explanation for Noitora's ashen pallor and unsteady gait. Noitora gave a brief, vague explanation that made Grimmjow very antsy and suspicious of Noitora.

"Dude, you think it was the acid you did two nights ago?"

"No way." Noitora snorted. He smiled at the memory. "But I was tripping balls, man."

"You started talking to the ceiling that apparently had a face."

They guffawed stupidly, exchanging many remarks and compliments. Szayel pretended to hear none of this, though Ulquiorra looked offended. Stark was just resigned. He was well aware of their illicit activities. Szayel knew he had no power over them. Grimmjow preferred alcohol over drugs, and he was able to control himself. In fact, Grimmjow could enjoy a party sober. Noitora could too, but he felt he needed to 'enhance' the party experience. But Szayel did wonder, where did Noitora get all the drugs from? Because Szayel was a scientist, he did have illegal, dangerous drugs stashed in the most inner recesses of his lab. But nobody had access to those stashes except him.

Noitora sat on one of the gurneys and sat there, chatting lightly with Grimmjow while Ulquiorra panicked about some substance congealing in his throat. This caused drama, from Szayel urging Ulquiorra to pick the clot out of his throat. Ulquiorra, blessed with an oh so powerful gag reflex, was extremely reluctant to reach back there and pick it out with a finger. He could not handle an inane swab. In the end, Ulquiorra swallowed the clot, but not without a massive shudder that made the ordeal seem more unpleasant to everyone else. Blood continued to cascade from his nose down his shirt and onto the tile. Szayel shoved an ice pack and clean towel on Ulquiorra's face, and then went to deal with Noitora, whose color was slowly returning.

Szayel went straight to the drawer and pulled out a phlebotomy kit. He wiggled his fingers in the gloves he wore and gave Noitora a comforting smile. Noitora raised an eyebrow as Szayel came closer, holding the butterfly needle and tourniquet. Grimmjow gave a histrionic gasp and covered his eyes. Stark looked at the wall. Ulquiorra, sick and tired of seeing red, just stared at the floor. To his dismay, there was blood on the floor. His blood. Fail.

Noitora didn't even flinch as Szayel laced the tourniquet around his upper arm. He didn't wince as Szayel prodded the crook of his elbow for a vein to puncture. He watched, straight faced, as the needle went into his skin. The vial filled with dark venous blood within ten seconds, and the needle was out. Szayel was absolutely delighted by Noitora's cooperation! Never had he had such a wonderful patient, at least with blood tests.

"I don't mind needles," Noitora said, smirking at the rapture on Szayel's face.

"Good!" Szayel gushed. "It's wonderful to have normal patients." He threw a pointed look at Grimmjow and Ulquiorra. Grimmjow was cowering in a corner and Ulquiorra was trying not to choke on blood.

"Then again, you haven't thought about my _hobbies_, have you?" Noitora pointed out, smirk widening.

The smile dropped off Szayel's face and was replaced by a gloomy frown. He tossed the vial to Verona who had bounced in at the right moment. In the meantime, Szayel decided to inspect Ulquiorra's bloody nose. He pried the towel from Ulquiorra's sticky, bloody fingers and a stream of dark blood trailed down his lip, and dripped into his lap. It seemed to be gushing out.

"You're looking pale. It should've stopped by now." Szayel muttered with a concerned contraction of the eyebrows. "Still, your blood is such a beautiful color."

Ulquiorra, caught off guard by Szayel's compliment to his blood, didn't reply immediately. "…I'm nauseous." he said flatly.

"Did you swallow the clots, the jello-ish blobs of what looks like bloody boogers?" questioned Szayel. He forced the ice pack on Ulquiorra's face again.

"Yes, about ten or more of them." Ulquiorra said with a grimace.

"I may have to cauterize, but I'll get to that if it hasn't let up in thirty minutes."

"Szayel…" Ulquiorra trailed off, and quickly rephrased what he was going to say. "It has been an hour. Do something about this bleeding. You are a doctor, are you not?"

"In ten to fifteen minutes I will." Szayel said firmly, giving Ulquiorra a reproachful glare over the rimes of his glasses. The reason waiting was the best choice was because Ulquiorra had a tendency of being a bit theatrical when it came to physical discomfort, or blood. Besides, the following ten minutes could be the ones where the bleeding would finally stop or let up. In the meantime, Szayel returned to Noitora. He snaked the stethoscope from around his neck and listened to Noitora's heartbeat.

"Hey, Ulquiorra. Are you on your period? 'Cause you're bleeding like crazy!"

"From my nose, imbecile." Ulquiorra snapped.

"Periods comes from the vag, FYI." Noitora said in a most nonchalant, scholarly tone.

"Ewwwww!" Grimmjow squealed, waving his arms around. "That is so GROSS."

"Periods or vaginas? Periods, yes, vaginas, no." Noitora snickered.

Because of this extremely pointless conversation instigated by none other than Grimmjow, Szayel couldn't hear anything that was going on in Noitora's chest.

"Can you all shut up for once?" Szayel demanded sharply, throwing them all an ominous lower. They complied. Glancing at Noitora, Szayel noticed Noitora was beginning to lose color again. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Are you feeling all right?" Szayel asked Noitora, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Noitora sighed and rubbed his eyes. He murmured, "I just got really, really tired all of a sudden."

Szayel nodded, making a mental note of that. He pressed the stethoscope to Noitora's bony, pallid chest. Szayel listened very carefully. With each breath, Szayel heard a smooth whoosh of air as Szayel inhaled and exhaled. He shifted the stethoscope to left, at a place just past the midline of the body. Szayel heard it immediately. There was a rhythmic, muffled clicking sound followed immediately by a loud whoosh. Szayel raised an eyebrow and shifted the stethoscope again, listening as the clicking faded the further away it got from that certain place in Noitora's heart. He concluded it was definitely a valve in Noitora's heart—the mitral valve. Szayel had the diagnosis immediately.

"You frowned." Noitora observed. "What's up?"

"Noitora, you mentioned you feel tired. How often does this happen and what other odd symptoms have you experienced?" Szayel asked curiously.

"The tiredness comes randomly." Noitora explained. "I begin to feel lightheaded if I stand up for too long and having sex or dancing it happens if it gets too intense, and it always does, hehe. But I'm almost used to that dizziness by now, so it's all good."

"Ah. The reason for that is have mitral valve prolapse." Szayel said, removing his stethoscope.

"Hey! Isn't that some super strong thing, the mightral valve?" Grimmjow asked eagerly, listening in.

"Heart. It's a valve in the heart." Szayel corrected with a chuckle. "Mitral valve prolapse, commonly abbreviated MVP, is a heart condition. The mitral valve, also known as the bicuspid valve, prevents backflow of blood from the left ventricle to the left atrium."

Noitora nodded, intently.

"The heart has two atria and two ventricles. In a diagram of a heart," Szayel paused to open up a drawer nearby, withdrawing an anatomy textbook. Szayel flipped it open to a cross section of the heart. Szayel pointed to the left atrium and then to the left ventricle, just below it.

"The left atrium will receive oxygenated blood from the pulmonary veins, and that blood will be pumped to the left ventricle. Here's where the mitral valve comes in." He tapped the mitral valve, composed of two taut leaflets there were connected to papillary muscles inside the left ventricle. "The mitral valve's duty is to prevent blood from moving back into the LA. When it does, you begin to feel the symptoms of mitral regurgitation. The shortness of breath, tiredness, etcetera. This isn't usually serious unless one goes into shock."

"In the future, Noitora, you may have to have surgery to replace your faulty valve. But for now, you seem fine. When I listened to your heart, I heard clicking followed immediately by whoosh, both in late systole—"

"You lost me—systole? What is that?" Noitora inquired.

"The contraction of the four chambers of the heart, particularly the ventricles, to pump blood into the pulmonary arteries or the aorta, which take blood to the lungs and rest of the body."

"Gotcha. And you heard clicking? Seriously?" Noitora asked, intrigued smile widening on his face.

"Yes, listen for yourself." Szayel handed his stethoscope to Noitora, who managed to figure out how to work it. He pressed it to his chest and his mouth dropped. Everyone in the room watched as his eyes widened. Noitora heard the smothered, fleeting _lub-dub_, with a the vauge _click _in between. It was the very same thing Szayel had heard.

"Oh, damn…" he murmured. "Grimmjow, you have to hear this shit." Noitora brusquely jammed the stethoscope in Grimmjow's ears. Grimmjow let out a loud swear word and did a little jig of absolute joy when he heard the clicking. In the meantime, Szayel perused Noitora's blood test results. All was normal.

"Oh, damn! You sound like you have a bomb in there!" Grimmjow exclaimed.

"I know, right?" Noitora said excitedly.

"In mitral regurgitation, I'd hear a loud whooshing sound in systole." Szayel added. He adjusted his glasses reflexively and surveyed them all. "Now onto the important part. There is no cure for mitral valve prolapse unless it gets severe to the point where the valve needs to be replaced. This is extremely rare, but given the penchant you all have for attracting scalpels the chance of needing a valve replacement is possible. What I'm more interested in is the cause of your MVP…" Szayel's eyes narrowed in a very scheming, calculating manner as the list of conditions and illnesses in Szayel's head narrowed once again.

"Ordinarily, MVP doesn't have a known cause, but there are some cases in which it does. And I have a feeling your case is one of those cases." Szayel tapped a finger to his lip in deep thought.

"Okay, well, what causes my disease?" Noitora asked. Szayel's eyes drifted to Noitora's feet, hanging off the examination table. The long, spidery arms he possessed were behind his head. The long fingers, narrow face, lack of body fat. Every appendage on his body was of disproportionate length. Plus the MVP and mitral regurgitation. It hit him like a pile of bricks.

"Marfan syndrome." Szayel said. "Of course! You have Marfan syndrome, Noitora."

"Well, if you don't explain to me what that is then I can't really have a reaction to it." Noitora said testily. He was itching to go finish cooking wellington beef…or better yet, start it over again since the kitchen was technically unusable due to the blaze that had incinerated the stove.

"Marfan syndrome," Szayel began his explanation with a little hem-hem. "is a genetic disorder that affects all systems of the body, primarily the heart. People with Marfan, like yourself, are very long and limber. It's difficult to diagnose because the symptoms of Marfan are varied and can be seen in other illnesses and conditions. People with Marfan are likely to develop MVP, along with heart murmurs, eye problems, and many other serious conditions."

"No cure?" Noitora asked, already knowing the answer.

"No cure. But, it's not a debilitating disorder, necessarily. You'll have to visit me for checkups every three months or when you feel the need to. And if you experience a new symptom, come to me immediately. Keep in mind to not do too much vigorous exercise, as it is risky, given your present condition."

"Okay, great." Noitora said dismissively. "Can I leave yet?"

Szayel had covered most of what Noitora needed to know. He let Noitora and Grimmjow leave. Now to Ulquiorra, who was still sitting on the other examination table miserably. Szayel smiled apologetically and opened a drawer nearby. From it he withdrew a long, thin package.

"You better not swab me." Ulquiorra said threateningly.

"No. But I don't think you'll find this enjoyable, either." Szayel tore open the package, and extracted what looked like a long matchstick. Stark and Ulquiorra watched, mildly appalled and curious as Szayel turned the faucet on. Szayel dipped the stick in the flow of water and turned the faucet off. He suppressed a smile and fished for a penlight pocket in his pocket. He clicked it on and told Ulquiorra to remove the towel from his nose. At once, fresh blood poured out.

"Hold very still," Szayel said gently. "You will likely feel pain a few seconds."  
The light illuminated just enough for Szayel to estimate the location of the bleed. It was deep inside Ulquiorra's right nostril, but not unreachable by the silver nitrate stick he grasped confidently in his left hand. Szayel carefully inserted the silver nitrate stick and pressed it to the site of bleeding for a few seconds. Ulquiorra was markedly uncomfortable, but remained silent and cooperative. Szayel withdrew the silver nitrate stick and threw it in the trashcan. Silver nitrate, as an versatile compound, was just as helpful in medicine as in chemistry and engineering.

"There you go!" Szayel said with a grin.

"That was it?" Ulquiorra asked in a low voice. He was waiting for the warm blood to come flowing from his nose, but nothing came. Other than a stinging pain deep inside his nose, and the woozy feeling from swallowing too many clots, Ulquiorra was relieved to be able to breathe normally.

"Yup!" Szayel said cheerily. "Two things to remember—don't blow your nose for a week, and if you must sneeze, sneeze through your mouth. You can leave."

Ulquiorra slid off the examination table and left the room without a word. Szayel looked at the towel Ulquiorra had left behind, soaked bright red with blood. Blood was on the floor, the walls. It looked like a Halloween scene, but nothing would match what was to come.

* * *

So...I just stopped hating Noit not long ago, so I FINALLY decided to put him in the story. Not even he can escape misfortune. He can, however, escape STDs.

This chapter, eh. Heart problems are intriguing, and that MVP will give Noit some problems in the future. However, the next one is significantly better. PS: it involves the wonderfully bloody practices of orthopedic surgery. Review and you'll likely get a few little hints from me.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Phantoms and Failures

* * *

The atmosphere in Las Noches had gone from dull to festive with Halloween quickly approaching in two days. Orange and black streamers and balloons lined the halls, Grimmjow's fraccion were standing at every corner ready to jump out at anybody to walk by (not being paid, of course), and Grimmjow had some epic plans for the night drawn on his wall with spray paint. Pumpkins the size of cars adorned the foyer, and those very pumpkins fired ceros randomly. A few had nipped Noitora's ass, much to his dismay.

Candy of endless varieties were strewn across the hallways, which had proven to be a problem since some Espada couldn't resist the candy and had made a few trips to Szayel with searing stomachaches. But other than that, all was fine and dandy…generally speaking, that is. Ulquiorra's mood had worsened considerably to the point where being with him was unbearable. He was pessimistic, irritated, lacking any patience whatsoever. He discovered his credit cards had been maxed out and his cash had been spent because two idiots stole his wallets. Names need not be disclosed, as it is obvious. The nasty 'art' on his driver's license had been the killer. When he was on kitchen duty again, Noitora had the gall to make a comment about his 'effort', that is, a TV dinner meal. In response, Ulquiorra flipped the table and stormed out, muttering blasphemy under his breath and leaving several others shocked, offended, and hungry. Szayel decided to take over, and made dinner in five minutes flat. Yes, the food had quite an aftertaste, and Stark's stomach did flips for an hour after he ate it, but for the most part it satisfied the hunger area.

"Dude, Szayel, I have a question." Grimmjow said in all seriousness, setting his fork down on his plate.

"Fire away," Szayel said with a small smile.

"What's the most painful thing that's ever happened to you?" Grimmjow asked fiercely.

"Ooh." Szayel frowned a little and glanced up at the ceiling. "Probably the time I spilled highly caustic acid on my leg. That _hurt_. Appendicitis was terrible too, as you would know." He gave a little nod in Grimmjow's direction. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know." Grimmjow shrugged. "Ulquiorra is being one bitchy mofo."

"Uh huh." Szayel murmured.

"Maybe he's jealous of us." Grimmjow said loudly. "Since we're fuckin' cool and shit."

"No, I think he just hates us." Stark said blankly. Stark was right. Ulquiorra wasn't exactly affectionate—he made of point of getting away from one if he didn't like them. Ulquiorra was nearly as theatrical as Szayel, but more quiet about it. If Szayel was mad, he'd make sure everybody knew, whether it was intended or not.

And then, without warning, the lights went out, and they were plunged into darkness. In reaction to the power outage, Grimmjow's knee jerked up and hit the table. He cursed loudly.

"Szayel, what the hell did you do now?" Stark demanded. He waved a hand in front of his face and was surprised to find he couldn't see it.

"Oh, shut up." Szayel hissed. "I didn't do anything…"

"Dude, holy shit, man." Grimmjow said, voice rising with hysterics. "You know what this, means, Noitora."

"Zombies. Szayel, this is the apocalypse." Noitora rose from his chair, blindly feeling for the wall. They could hear him scuffling along, arm in arm with Grimmjow, who was muttering things under his breath.

"If you don't hear from us in ten hours, don't look for us." Grimmjow said histrionically.

"I wouldn't look for you, anyway." Szayel harrumphed. "Fine, go find your zombies."

Stark, as he was calm, cool, and collected by nature, did not bat an eye at the sudden power outage. He remained in his seat, and gave a sigh. Halibel was probably fine. And somewhere nearby, he could hear Szayel searching through drawers and cabinets, but Stark didn't ask what for.

"Ah-ha!" Szayel sounded elated. There was a high pitched grating sound, a spark, and the ghostly glow of an orange flame illuminated Szayel's face eerily—dark shadows appeared under his eyes, and the bright orange irises of his reflected the flame that was on the tip of a fork.

"How…how did you do that?" Stark asked, puzzled.

"Oho, well, that's classified information." Szayel chuckled, looking flattered. The flame was small, but it was just enough light to get around. He beckoned Stark over, and the two left the kitchen nonchalantly.

"That's bizarre. I wasn't fooling around with the generator today, or even this week." Szayel said thoughtfully. "No matter—I'll fix it when I get to my lab."

"Szayel, there aren't really zombies, are there?" Stark asked with a frown. He couldn't believe he was asking such a stupid question. But at the dark, nervous look that passed over Szayel's face, he felt a little bit anxious.

"Ah, well, I do have a morgue, you know." Szayel said with a forced, casual wave of his hand. "And the cadavers _have_ grabbed my hand during autopsies…those bitches are tough to kill…a particularly nasty one tried to stab me."

"Seriously?"

"No, you idiot." Szayel said flatly. "But I did have a particularly nasty cadaver the other day. Maybe it wasn't one hundred percent dead."

"So…zombies do exist." Stark said slowly—Halibel came to mind immediately. He took a step closer to Szayel.

"Eh. Not really…" Szayel said with a nervous laugh. He was definitely hiding something—when he was trying to be secretive, Szayel had a tendency to get fidgety.

"I hear footsteps." Stark said tensely. Slow, easy footsteps echoed in the corridor. Szayel, on his right side, tensed up and held the fork higher over his head, squinting. He frowned suddenly and moved closer, jumping nearly three feet with the light illuminated Ulquiorra. Due to his pallor and large, green eyes, the light made him look like an apparition. Stark gasped.

"What?" Ulquiorra demanded irritably.

"You looked like a ghost," Stark said, forcing a laugh. Ulquiorra's eyes flickered to meet Stark's briefly before moving back to Szayel.

"I regret to inform you that there was a dead body walking the southern wing," Ulquiorra said blankly. "Unless it was my imagination."

"Well, it wasn't." Szayel said shortly. Unless it was one of the many tacky decorations…Grimmjow had commissioned Szayel to build creepy robots that looked like dead bodies. Szayel was now rich (with Ulquiorra's cash, a fact that would not be made public), but that was beside the point.

Ulquiorra's left eyebrow quirked upward in an intrigued, dubious little motion. He nodded vaguely.

"Is that so?" he said softly.

"Was it tough to kill?" Szayel asked, moving on. The lab was not too far now. Only about half a mile, damn Las Noches.

"Quite." Ulquiorra said curtly.

"Well, whatever, I can solve the problem once I get to the lab. So let's hurry."

-

-

Grimmjow and Noitora were faring much worse. Guided by a mixture of intuition and stupidity, they were completely lost in the darkness. Occasionally, strange sounds would echo through the pitch, raising the hairs on the back of Grimmjow's neck. He walked tensely, like a cat about to pounce. Noitora took awkward little steps, stopping to listen every so often. They were silent—communication was not needed until they heard a growl, footstep, or needed to devise a battle plan. Grimmjow was leading, a few feet in front of Noitora. He was fingering the hilt of his sword intermittently.

And, then he stopped. Noitora followed suit and quit walking. Grimmjow had heard something, and now he heard it too. Footsteps. These were quiet, fast, coming closer quickly.

Grimmjow's instincts kicked in an adrenaline ran through his veins. He wasted no time, and raised his leg to land one hell of a blow on the zombie. His aim was true. His shin felt something stiff give way to his wallop with a complimentary snap. And then, there was a piercing scream, high pitched and agonized.

"It's alive!" Noitora screamed.

"You imbeciles!" the shrill voice said hysterically. It was then Grimmjow recognized the voice. Even through the pitch, the hysteria, the moans of pain, his blood ran cold when he realized he had just kicked Halibel right in the thigh.

"Dude, oh my God!" Grimmjow yelped. "Is that you, Halibel?"

"What do you think?" she said through fast breaths. "You broke my leg!"

"Wh-what?" Grimmjow stammered. "No way."

Halibel didn't even respond. She was just moaning, lying on the floor of Las Noches. Grimmjow knelt down and felt his way toward her, brushing her injured leg with his hand. Halibel yelped in pain and threw him off.

"Get me to Szayel's lab _right now_!" she commanded.

"Yeah, problem." Noitora said flatly. "We have no idea where we are."

Grimmjow felt for her again, grabbed her hand, and pulled her up effortlessly.

"Don't…" her voice broke and through sobs, she finished, "Don't pick me up, it hurts too much."

And then, magically the lights turned back on. They were dim, but just enough to see—he knew exactly where he was—they were close to the throne room. But Grimmjow's stomach did flips and roiled nastily when he saw her leg. It was bent at an awkward angle, noticeable even with the loose hakama. Halibel was white, sheer sweat on her forehead and tears running her down her face. She was clinging to Grimmjow and was rooted to the spot, reluctant or completely unable to move. And then, the others arrived.

"We heard a—" Szayel gasped, eyebrows rising. "Oh, dear." He rushed over to Halibel while Stark stood at Ulquiorra's side, eyes wide and disbelieving, face draining of color. His knees were about to slacken.

"Is that…is that her leg?" Stark asked in a whisper. He watched, catatonic, as Szayel pulled her arm over his shoulder. Grimmjow did the same, but Halibel almost fainted when she was lifted off the ground. Szayel sonido'd himself into oblivion, and then returned seconds later with a gurney, on which Halibel was placed.

"How did this happen?" Szayel asked, pushing the gurney at breakneck speed.

"Ask Grimmjow!" Halibel said tearfully.

"W-Well, I thought it was a zombie coming, so I kicked it." Grimmjow said sheepishly, jogging to keep with the speed. Stark was walking quickly, grabbing the railing for support. He did not even want to look at her right leg, bent out of position. Ulquiorra was staring at the leg with a horrified look on his face, and was the first to point out the bloodstain forming on her hakama.

"Way to go," Szayel said sarcastically. "I can tell you that that leg is broken in at least three places."

"Three places?" Stark echoed. He shuddered.

"Are you in pain, Halibel?" Szayel asked.

She moaned in reply and grasped the railing so hard her knuckles turned white. Tears were sliding down her cheeks, and she was trembling with pain.

"That's a yes." Szayel said with a weak smile. "I need x-rays first. Then I can set you up with morphine."

The doors to the lab were kicked open by Grimmjow, and they bustled to the x-ray room, a place Grimmjow was familiar with by now. Halibel was lifted off the gurney and onto the cold, metal table, but not without excruciating pain and sobs that racked her body. It was nearly impossible for her to stay still. Grimmjow, sick of Stark's pansiness and comatose, told him to "grow some balls and haul ass to your wifey", which really got Stark going. He was at Halibel's side, whispered things while Szayel slid metal plates under her leg.

They hurried behind the thick lead wall while the x-rays were taken. And minutes later, they were printed out and pinned to the light box. Szayel let out a low whistle, followed by an awed, disbelieving "Damn."

The x-ray revealed three complete fractures of the femur. The bone was broken into four pieces—one piece was almost piercing through her skin, a white, oblique figure on the x-ray. Another shard was lying obliquely to the point where it was nearly horizontal. About six inches of the proximal portion remained connected to her hip by ligament, and four inches distal end connected firmly to the tibia by the cruciate and lateral ligaments. The two other shards were just there, floating separated completely from each other. This fracture as a whole was comminuted, transverse, and compound. Her pain must've been unimaginable.

"That is the worst fracture I've ever seen," Szayel said. He sounded both excited and grave. "I have never seen something so…surreal. It's almost impossible."

"Holy crap, Grimmjow!" Noitora said, whacking Grimmjow upside the head. "Look what you did!"

"Hey, I was trying to protect myself…"

They followed Szayel out to Halibel, who held the x-ray over her head so she could see.

"Three places," he said with a jerky nod.

"O-Oh, wow…" she said weakly, trembling. How she was still conscious mystified Szayel.

"We're going take to you to the operating room immediately." Szayel said. They wheeled her straight to the OR, and the rest of the Espada knew what to do. Right away, they were in the scrub room, tying aprons, washing hands, steeling themselves for what was going to be a grisly, bloody procedure. They trooped into the operating room just as Halibel succumbed to the anesthesia, going limp as her consciousness and pain ended. Her right leg, purple and disfigured, was painted from hip to calf with orange betadine, bent at the knee while he lower leg was wrapped up in sterile dressings and dangling off the edge of the table. A monitor nearby displayed the x-ray. Szayel beckoned them over.

"First things first…" Szayel paused for a moment, scowling. "This is going to be difficult. It looks like I'm going to have to start the proximal end." Szayel placed a hand on Halibel's upper thigh, assessing it for a good place to start. "I'll have to ream the proximal end, and then insert the alignment device. From there, I'll have to ream the second and third chunks, which are lying at an oblique angle. Then I'll onto the distal end, where I can ream." Szayel sighed irritably, throwing Grimmjow a reproachful look. "It'll be a back and forth type deal. Once I have reamed all of the fractures, I'll have to hammer in the rod from the distal end of the bone…okay! Got it."

"Wait a minute." Stark said, raising a hand. "You're putting a nail in her _leg_?"

"Mmm, technically, it's her bone. Which is different than the leg." Szayel replied.

"Smart ass," Stark murmured darkly. But then it hit him—a sickening image popped into his mind. He pictured Halibel's leg sliced open, blood splattered on the white walls, with Szayel laughing maniacally as he wildly hammered a nail into her leg. Stark's eye twitched and a roiling feeling of foreboding came over him.

"Typically, intramedullary nailing of the femur requires one or two incisions." Szayel, plucking a scalpel off the instrument tray. "But due to the comminuted frac—"

"Comminuted?" Noitora asked sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means broken into several fragments." Szayel said, miffed at the interruption. "Because it's comminuted, I might have to make several incisions."

He grabbed the dazzlingly bright light overhead and focused it on Halibel's hip. He smiled faintly as he beckoned the others over, and Stark was unfortunate to catch a glimpse of the IM nail, nearly two feet long, glinting ominously, as he walked over to Szayel. Thick nails rested next to them, waiting to be drilled into the bone. The abundance of clear drapings around the leg insinuated a bloody surgery.

"One question—how exactly are you going to get that motherfucking rod in her leg? It's the length of her femur!" Grimmjow said, flailing his arms.

"The same way nails are put—with a hammer." Szayel said. He snickered at the aghast look on Stark's face, the revulsion from Grimmjow that was almost palpable in the air, and Ulquiorra's lack of reaction. His eyes moved to the rod, and then he scowled.

"I assume recovery will be painful." He said quietly.

"Yes, and long." Szayel said. He pulled a relatively innocuous drill from the instrument table. Stark relaxed for a moment, but then tensed up when he saw the reamer. The reamer was a long, cannulated, grooved piece of dark metal that Szayel effortlessly connected to the drill. It looked like something out of a horror movie—a nauseating mental image of that thing in Halibel's leg nearly put Stark into a swoon. Grimmjow whimpered, Ulquiorra appeared to be deeply unnerved by its obscene size. What the hell was Szayel thinking?

"Not to worry!" Szayel chuckled at their horrified expressions. He waved a gloved, bloody hand that he briefly wiped on his apron. "The femoral canal is soft, containing bone marrow, so it won't be hard to get the rod in. Once reamed, it'll be a cinch!" With starry eyes, Szayel gazed at the drill fondly. He held it up to the light, the dark metal glinted slightly. Szayel carefully pressed the tip of the reamer to a spot on the right side of her upper thigh in an experimental fashion. And then, he waved Grimmjow over.

"'Sup?" Grimmjow asked. He was confident today! The fact he wasn't trembling yet was remarkable.

Szayel pointed to the instrument tray and commanded, "Get the scalpel and make a three centimeter incision right here." Szayel drew a line with his finger where he had had pressed the reamer.

"Dude." Grimmjow snorted. "You're one crazy bitch, you know that?" he burst into laughter not unlike a hyena's.

"I'm serious." Szayel said flatly. "It's three centimeters. Hurry up—we can't let the inflammation get too bad."

"Uhhh…" Grimmjow shrugged and swallowed the rising anxiety and nausea in him. He grasped the scalpel firmly in his right hand, and, frowning, assessed the angle at which he'd begin.

"Sink it in and draw it across." Szayel said patiently. He accompanied his command with a surfing motion of the hand.

"Fine, damn it." Grimmjow hissed. He hesitated just millimeters over Halibel's bronze skin. And then, he sunk the scalpel into her skin. He groaned, repulsed, and repressed a shudder.

"Deeper," Szayel said.

Grimmjow did as told. It was so strange, cutting with the scalpel. Skin was springy and surprisingly tough to cut. The skin seemed to cling to the scalpel as Grimmjow drew it across in a straight, quick swipe, slicing through taut muscle and thick fat.

"Nastiness!" he cried, flinging the scalpel onto the instrument tray with a clatter. Flailing his arms, he retreated to Stark, who was standing at the foot of the operating table, arms folded and eyes focused on the ceiling.

"Thank you, Grimmjow!" Szayel said brightly. Ulquiorra was the next victim. He was beckoned over by Szayel, who was holding an odd, relatively large device.

"What is that?" Ulquiorra asked, brow furrowing.

"Retractor." Szayel said shortly. The retractor was shaped like a C with a line hanging off the bottom end of the C—like a U on its side with a line drawn horizontally to the right from the top right tip. The blades of the retractor resembled a wide toothed comb. Szayel handed it to Ulquiorra, who had quite a thing for retractors. He examined it for a moment. And then, he placed the retractor in the incision, holding it open tautly. The crimson muscles were pulled apart, as well as the glistening yellow fat, and the shiny head of the femur was exposed. Szayel was beside himself with excitement.

"Now, stand back. This could get messy." Szayel said, putting on some goggles. There was a short delay just before he started the reaming. With a strident, jarring sound, the reamer penetrated the bone. Stark gave a horrendously vicious shudder. The reamer slipped right into the canal, bypassing the soft, red bone marrow. Szayel had to be careful—go too far in and he could further shatter the oblique fragment. He stopped once he felt the resistance cease to exist. With a firm pull, he removed the reamer, placing it on the instrument table. The red, spongy bone marrow shone under the hot lights. And he was right—it was messy. There was blood on his apron, on his gloves, and running down the plastic drapes in thin streams. Szayel was completely unfazed, and ordered Ulquiorra to dab away at the blood with gauze. Ulquiorra, however, was very reluctant to do so. He had to suppress an intense wave of nausea as he dabbed sticky red bone marrow out of the opening.

"Holy shit," Grimmjow said, awed. "That was fuckin' crazy, man!"

Szayel looked blissfully flattered. He waved Grimmjow over and handed him a long, T shaped piece of metal. Grimmjow accepted it awkwardly.

"Uh, yeah, what the hell is this thing?"

"Alignment device." Szayel focused the light on the neat, round tunnel that had been drilled in by the reamer. "Place it very carefully through that hole—"

"That's what she said!" Noitora said.

"Go burn in hell!" Stark said, unleashing a sudden wave of temper. He whacked Noitora good and hard on the back with his fist.

"Place it in very carefully and slowly. Once you feel it hit something hard, stop pushing it in." Szayel instructed calmly. Grimmjow frowned a bit and shrugged, trying to focus on the tunnel and not Ulquiorra's bloody hands and soaked pieces of gauze. The alignment device slid in easily. Grimmjow was relieved. As told, he stopped when he hit something hard. Grimmjow stood back and let Szayel handle this part. With a few maneuvers of the alignment device, he had the two fragments held together. Now the hard part—the reaming. Where to begin? He couldn't jam the realignment device in there to hollow out the femoral canal—the fragment would sink deeper, possibly displacing the other two fragments. It was time to make an incision. Even a small one would help. Halibel's femur was seventeen and a half inches long. They contributed to her height and naturally long legs. Judging by the x-ray, the distal end of the femur was about four inches long. The fragment lying on its side was about three inches long. The oblique piece was more or less five inches and the proximal piece was 6 inches or so. It was only logical to move on to the five inch piece of bone. Though it was now in alignment and no longer oblique due to the device, the incision would still have to be made for visibility and reaming.

"Stark, come here." Szayel said. Everyone's heads snapped to Stark, who was standing as far from possible at the foot of the operating table. He ambled over to Szayel, making a face at the gory mess. A scalpel was forced into his hand abruptly. "Make a two and a half inch incision right here," Szayel said. He drew his thumb in a vertical line that was just off center to the right of Halibel's leg.

"Wait, seriously?" Stark demanded. The tiny blade in his hand was so sharp, its chiseled edge seemed to catch the light and glimmer like a diamond. "Szayel, I—" Stark clamped his mouth shut. Szayel wasn't going to give in. He looked expectant, unwavering. And so, with a dramatic sigh, Stark held the blade hesitantly over her bronze skin. How could Stark going to cut Halibel? She couldn't feel anything, but it nauseated him. And in a burst of courage, he pressed the scalpel to her leg and sunk it in, drawing across slowly.

"More pressure," Szayel instructed.

Stark gulped. Skin was nauseatingly thick, difficult to cut through, in his opinion. Through the blade, he felt it cutting through tough muscle. Once finished, he jerked the scalpel out and deposited it in Szayel's hand. Stark shuddered violently. But he had left a perfect incision behind, so perfect that Szayel shot a disbelieving look at Stark.

"Was it that bad?" Szayel chuckled. Ulquiorra was next to him, toying with another retractor. This one was more scissor like and smaller than the first retractor. Like the first, it was self retaining, so it held the incision open by itself.

"Not so fast!" Szayel forced a retractor that looked disturbingly similar to a spatula into Ulquiorra's hand. And another one was forced into Ulquiorra's left hand. "Hold away all the tissue from the bone."

Ulquiorra peered into the incision—the ends of the bone shards (distal end of the diagonal fragment and proximal tip of the small, horizontal piece) were visible. Perfect. Ulquiorra slipped the retractors in on either side of the bones and pulled away. Muscle and fat were displaced neatly.

"Grimmjow, I'll need your strength." Szayel said. Grimmjow marched over, and before Szayel could hand him the bone clamps, angled, Grimmjow snatched them out of his hand. This particular clamp was specially designed for the bones. It looked like a Y that was missing one of its arms. At the end of the remaining arm, there were rounded blades.

"I need you to hold the two bones visible in the incision," Szayel said, pointing to the them. "With the retractors of course. I'm going to ream, so you need to keep it still as possible. In fact, apply some pressure toward the proximal end, from where I will be drilling."

"'Kay." Grimmjow muttered. His arms were almost tangled in Ulquiorra's—four retractors in a two and a half incision were difficult to maintain.

Szayel deftly removed the alignment device and brought back the reamer. The grating, raucous sound erupted once again. Grimmjow found himself applying substantial force to keep the bones straight and put together like a puzzle. And Ulquiorra could feel Grimmjow's confidence waver next to him as the grating became more fierce. And then, Szayel stopped reaming.

"Excellent!" he said with a little on the spot jig. "Now that's what I call killing two birds with one stone! In case you didn't notice, we just reamed two bone fragments."

The realignment device was introduced once again, and hopefully for the last time. Now, all the bone fragments were aligned perfectly. The reamer was used one last time for the distal end of the femur, and that was fast and easy—another incision was not needed. Now came the intramedullary nail, the apex of the surgical procedure.

Szayel grasped another strange instrument from the tray. This one looked like a T bent to the side from the middle at about one hundred twenty degrees. But one of 'wings' on T shaped apparatus had a hole through it while the other was curved to fit the contour of a hand. Needless to say, the hole was for the long intramedullary nail, about sixteen inches long. Szayel threaded the nail adroitly, and inserted the very tip of the long, metal nail into the tunnel that had been reamed through her whole femur.

"Who wants to help me hammer it in?" Szayel said with a smile—his eyes crinkled pleasantly. "Any volunteers?"

"Just…just do it yourself." Stark said weakly. He had been traumatized by the blood and bone and drills. He just wanted to sleep. Ulquiorra withdrew his retractors and placed them on the instrument tray, folding his arms and watching with mild interest as Szayel hit the 'wing' of the T-shaped instrument with a mallet. With each hit, the metal chinked, but the most horrifying sound was the dull, but loud, deep _thunk_ each time the rod was driven deeper into the bone. And then, a few minutes later, the intramedullary rod was in. But not secured!

"Now for the screws." Szayel said excitedly. Now it was time to return to the incision at her side, where Szayel would drill in the first two interlocking screws. The screws were nearly two inches long, and sturdy. They'd be screwed obliquely so that the rod would be held securely. This was easy—he drilled them both in quickly, and then moved on to the distal end of the femur while Ulquiorra removed all the retractors in her leg. Grimmjow followed suit and extracted the bone clamps.

Now, at the proximal end, Szayel made a deep two centimeter incision and drilled in the final two screws. And that was it—all that was left was the staples.

"Great work, everyone." Szayel said enthusiastically. He stapled the incisions shut with Stark's help, and smacked bandages over them, wiping away marrow residue and blood in the meantime. Her femur was back to being one complete bone. The final touch was an ugly black brace strikingly similar to the one Stark was forced to wear after his ACL surgery.

Halibel was extubated and wheeled straight to recovery, where she slowly returned to consciousness later. A steady stream of antibiotics and morphine flowed into her veins via IV.

-

-

Waking up from surgery was unfamiliar to her—she had never been under the staggeringly strong effects of general anesthesia before. Waking up seemed to be a battle—she'd go from hearing vague voices to slipping into deep slumber at two minute intervals. Bobbing in and out of consciousness, she was pleased to hear everyone's voices, hushed but lively. And finally, the effects of anesthesia began to wear off. She opened her eyes just a fraction. Stark was sitting to her right, and Szayel was leaning against the wall. Ulquiorra and Grimmjow were loafing around nearby.

"You guys!" Grimmjow exclaimed, scaring Szayel almost shitless with his yell. "She's awake."

"Oh—" Stark moved closer to her. "How are you feeling?"

Halibel shrugged minimally. "I'm cold." She said quietly. Szayel left the room and returned with warm blankets which he threw over her.

"Are you in pain?" Szayel asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"A little." She admitted. He nodded, satisfied, and added more morphine to her IV. Halibel had a healthy pallor, and she showed no signs of nausea or extreme pain. As most post op patients were, she was a tad listless.

"I want to see the incisions." She said to Szayel. Szayel pulled back the blankets, exposing the bulky black brace. Halibel studied the placement of bandages, and deeming them satisfactory, she nodded.

"You reamed proximally, am I correct?"

"Yes, and we had to ream in parts due to the comminuted nature of the fracture. Your bones are quite healthy. Drilling through him was a little tougher than it should've been, which isn't a bad thing!"

Halibel's sharp eyes strayed to Grimmjow, who seemed to shrink at her gaze. He gave a shy little wave and smiled nervously.

"I'm not mad that you broke my femur into four pieces and that I'll be on crutches for three months and in rehab for almost a year." She said. Szayel smirked at the sarcasm. It was true. But maybe she wouldn't be on crutches for that long. He planned to start her with some exercises tomorrow that would focus her quads and hamstrings. The earlier they started, the better, and because Halibel was a diligent worker, everything would run smoothly. Post op x-rays would be taken later and filed away.

"Dude, I'm like really sorry that I smashed up your leg and stuff." Grimmjow said with wide eyed sincerity. He looked unsure of what to do or say. Ulquiorra rolled his eyes and shook his head. Grimmjow had the tact of a four year old.

"I forgive you." She said in a begrudging, jaded tone. She surveyed all of them and then folded her hands over her stomach peacefully. "How long am I going to be here?"

"Three days." Szayel replied with a sure nod.

"In that case, get me some books or magazines. I'd appreciate the entertainment."

* * *

Speaking of bones...I got rubber bands for my braces. I've taken a vow of silence until the pain subsides; I can't even open my mouth.

Since orthopedic surgery requires so many odd and fascinating tools, I find it best to describe them using letters of the alphabet—it was like a walk down Sesame Street. This is probably my favorite chapter.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19: Harry?

* * *

Ah, Christmas. Cookies with laxatives, warm fires that gave off noxious fumes, and quality family time—a euphemism for senseless, intemperate drinking for the Espada and Arrancar of Las Noches. The day after Thanksgiving, snow blanketed the sands of Las Noches, drifting down in fluffy white snowflakes from gray, saturated skies. The timing could not have been more cliché. Temperatures plunged into the twenties, wind picked up, and Snuggies of various colors were draped over the shoulders of many, sweeping the cold floor. Those who thought they were too cool for snuggies doubled up on hakamas or wore long, fitted coats. Ulquiorra was obsessed with a nice black one he found in the recesses of his closet. Grimmjow, however, was fond of Snuggies and sweatpants, along with ski masks, to keep him nice and cozy. True, he looked like a terrorist, but it got the job done. His new motto, "No shame, no game" had proven to apply to every single aspect of his life.

Thanksgiving was had been a headache. Noitora got into a huge fight about the wishbone with Grimmjow, and they did not speak for weeks. But besides that, things went smoothly on that Thursday.

Upon entering Las Noches' grand foyer, one was hit by the scent of evergreen, and met with the sight of ten huge Christmas trees, golden ornaments glinting in the light.  
Wreaths were hung on all doors, ribbons and Santa hats were perched on the heads of Arrancar. If only the happenings in Las Noches were so clean-cut and classy. Las Noches lacked heating. Aizen only let certain rooms have heating, and they were the ones he spent the most time in, coincidentally. And Ulquiorra's room, since he was Aizen's obvious favorite. The Espada managed to get around this problem by rooming with Gin, whose room had been blessed with heated air. Originally, it had been like a slumber party, with sleeping bags and blankets strewn on the floor and late night conversations. The sleeping bags were phased out, and now they all slept in Gin's massive, plushy bed. It was so large that it comfortably housed Gin, Noitora, Grimmjow, Apache, Ilforte, and Tesla. Aizen had yet to find out. However, the food placed on Gin's bedside tables indicated freeloaders, as Gin would rather waste time people watching than eating. Also, articles of clothing of different sizes and styles were heaped neatly at the foot of Gin's bed, another indicator of prolonged visitors. "We're a big happy family," Gin had said one night.

"Fuck yeah, Seaking. I'm the dad, bitches. Apache's the mom."

"Tesla is absurdly naïve kid. Ilforte can be the alcoholic kid—"

"But I'm not alcoholic…" Ilforte said with a scowl. "Grimmjow's the alcoholic."

Grimmjow was quite…talented….when it came to alcohol. He was the current beer pong champ, master shotgunner, excellent keg stander, and held the Jagerbomb record. He also pregamed most 'events', such as parties, meetings, and sleeping. However, Grimmjow's high alcohol tolerance made it so that signs of drunkenness didn't become evident until quite a while later. Noitora's parties were to blame for what could easily turn into aggressive alcoholism.

"Hm, duly noted. Ilforte, you're the sketchy kid. I'm the rapist uncle." Noitora appointed himself a very fitting position. "Gin can be that one guy that everybody likes, which means he's allowed in the house."

"I'm the cousin." Gin said with a chuckle. He had been lucky—his roommates were heavy sleepers that rarely moved around in the night. Neither of them snored. It was a win-win situation. They were warm and fuzzy together. However, that warmth and fuzziness was not shared by all of them…

"Christmas is a time to be sober," Ulquiorra said in disapproval one morning when he saw Grimmjow setting up elaborate traps to catch Santa. Grimmjow was convinced that Santa was 'legit', so he was resolute in capturing the fat man.

"Um, yeah. I don't even know what that means." Grimmjow said dismissively. Literally. Few days of the week featured a completely sober Grimmjow. "But while you're here, want to hand me that drill over there?"

Christmas had put even Szayel in good mood! He spent the days in his lab, humming jaunty Christmas carols and enjoying hot cocoa with the others in the evening hours, raving about the joyous time of year. Halibel had made several trips to the real world, Christmas shopping for all of them. She was thoroughly enjoying herself with wrapping paper, ribbons, and surprises. The paper cuts and calluses on her hands were proof of intense wrapping sessions, but beautifully wrapped presents had begun appearing under the trees as early as the start of December.

The enticing scent of gingerbread cookies had permeated the still air of Las Noches. Stark's mouth began to water shortly before turning into the lounge on the evening of December seventeenth.

Inside, a glowing orange fire was crackling in the fireplace. Halibel was sitting primly in an armchair, chatting with Szayel about recent scientific breakthroughs. Szayel was smiling and nodding at something she was saying. Grimmjow was lying on a rug, devouring cookies with Apache. Both wore Snuggies and two pairs of socks, but Grimmjow's Snuggie was draped over both of them. Occasionally, he flung cookies into the fire to watch them burn and shrivel up, filling the room with more gingerbread scent.

"Okay, so I brought marshmallows and hangers. Let's fry marshmallows, 'kay?" Grimmjow handed a hanger, bent out of shapes, to Apache. With a cheerful grin, she stabbed a marshmallow with it and placed it in the fire. Consequently, the two giggled madly when a marshmallow caught fire.

Noitora was loafing around, texting people, and Ulquiorra was lying on one of the couches, half asleep, even though it was only half past six.

Stark took his place next to Halibel and observed the fire, humming his favorite carol and putting an arm around her.

"You've been quiet, Ulquiorra." Szayel observed. "Would you like to contribute to our conversation regarding the Large Hadron Collider?"

At the sound of his name, Ulquiorra's eyes flew open and he halfheartedly turned to look at Szayel.

"Are you alright?" Szayel asked, cocking his head. "You're usually more energetic than this."

"I feel ill, but I will be fine, thank you." Ulquiorra said coolly. Mild malaise had caused him to feel sluggish and queasy—Ulquiorra just wanted to sleep. However, he was convinced it was the huge chunk of turkey he had eaten for lunch that was causing his sudden lethargy.

"Ah, feel better. As I was saying, it'll be _fascinating…._!" Szayel continued.

But no. The next day was a completely different story. Ulquiorra was shaken awake by Grimmjow and Szayel, who were standing over him, looking concerned. Aizen was hanging back, eyes wide with terror. Szayel had a cold hand pressed to Ulquiorra's forehead, another closed around Ulquiorra's wrist. Halibel was peeling sheets saturated with cold sweat off of Ulquiorra's limp body.

"What's going on?" Ulquiorra asked weakly, closing his eyes. He was too dizzy to look into their faces, swirling above him.

"You're burning up with a fever," Szayel murmured urgently. He removed his hand from Ulquiorra's sweating brow and wiped it on his pants inconspicuously.

"I am?" Ulquiorra asked absentmindedly. Queasiness was escalating to nausea at an alarming rate now.

"Yes." Szayel said. "Can you swallow?"

"Of course." Ulquiorra replied. "Why?"

"Medicine. We need to lower that fever." Szayel said.

Ulquiorra grunted slightly in reply. He felt a hand on his shoulder followed by a gentle command from Szayel—"Sit up." Ulquiorra did as told, feeling distinctly worse. The room was tilting from side to side, he was hot and cold, and Szayel's cold hand was chilling him through his shirt.

A tiny little medicine cup was placed in his hand, filled with an orangey liquid that did not look too pleasing or tasty. Ulquiorra looked at Szayel bleakly.

"You have to. Would you rather have pills?" Szayel asked.

"I'm not feeling well." Ulquiorra said in an unnaturally high pitched voice. His eyes darted around the room, disoriented and dizzy.

"We're aware." Szayel said with a sympathetic smile.

"No, not feeling well as in get a trash can. Now." Ulquiorra said collapsing back onto his pillow. He clamped a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes, breathing quickly and trying to calm his roiling stomach. Szayel set the cup on the bedside table while Grimmjow made a swift retreat from the room. Aizen had his knuckles pressed to his mouth and watching intently as Ulquiorra's pallor reached a distinct shade of gray green, like old asphalt. He gave a dry little cough and flung an arm over his face.

"Shouldn't you examine him or something?" Aizen demanded, gesturing to Ulquiorra.

"No, I don't think it's necessary." Szayel said with a shake of his head. He was rummaging in the pocket of his lab coat for something. Aizen glared at Szayel and then fixed his attention on Ulquiorra, who was inching closer to the end of the bed. Another cough, this one more restrained. What seemed like the innocuous cough that came next was indeed a strong retch, and a successful one at that. Aizen nearly fainted when he saw his precious little Espada hacking up the contents of his stomach, gasping for breath and shaking all over.

"Damn it." Ulquiorra groaned, wiping his mouth and falling limply back onto his bed. He was trembling ever so slightly.

"I take it you feel too sick to take the medicine?" Szayel said, patting Ulquiorra's arm.

"What do you think, Szayel Aporro?" Aizen snapped. Halibel offered Ulquiorra a nice fluffy pillow, which he accepted.

"Well, Ulquiorra, I will have to give you an injection of ibuprofen." Szayel said, plucking a small syringe from his pocket. "We need to do something about that fever."

Ulquiorra cooperated, for once. He held his arm out for Szayel, and Szayel administered the injection quickly and painlessly. Ulquiorra barely flinched. And when he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

"I feel very sick." He said hoarsely.

"Szayel, I think you should examine him." Halibel said with a note of urgency in her smooth voice. Halibel threw a blanket over Ulquiorra, but he feebly kicked it off. "This sudden onset of severe symptoms is not normal."

Szayel hummed in deliberation. True, but his symptoms were relatively normal. There was no blood in his puke, nor was Ulquiorra seizing uncontrollably. But then, and idea came to mind. From his pocket, he produced a long cotton swab, not unlike the ones used to obtain a throat culture.

"Could you sit up for me?" Szayel asked Ulquiorra gently.

"No."

"Okay. I want you to hold very still for me." Szayel said calmly. He held the long swab between his index finger and thumb for support, letting it rest on his remaining fingers, curled under. The rapid flu test was decently accurate, generally painless, and fast. In a quick move, he jammed the swab up Ulquiorra's nostril, eliciting a spastic coughing fit from him, who hadn't even seen it coming. But the swab was out as fast as it was in, and Szayel tucked the swab back into its packaging and sonido'd himself to his lab where he would make the final diagnosis.

Meanwhile, Grimmjow was being sketchy with Noitora in the halls of Las Noches. The two were basically loitering, throwing menacing looks at anybody who walked by, when in reality they were just trying to think of something to do and failing at it. Grimmjow's hands were patched up with bandaids of varying colors and sizes. In creating his booby traps, he had gained blisters and calluses from using old school equipment to build them.

"Dude, want to go play GTA?" Noitora asked. "You still have to finish Packie's mission."

"Nah man. We've done that way too much. We need something craycray."

"'Kay, then let's have a party." Noitora suggested.

"Dude, oh my God, no. Aizen's actually here." Grimmjow muttered mutinously. Aizen had made the monumental decision to spend the holidays with his 'family' in Las Noches. This meant no out-of-control parties. They were so used to his absence there was a wild party every other night in Noitora's bedroom/club/brothel. Although his parties left people with agonizing hangovers, lost dignity (or virginity), they had managed to build relationships between the elitist Espada and the numeros, along with some fraccion. Plus, they were a lot of fun! Loud music, good food, fist pumping, intense drinking games…Noitora's parties could not have been more well structured. Everybody was invited to his parties, even freaks like Ulquiorra. He always declined the invites, however.

"Fuck that shit." Noitora said dismissively. "I don't give a rat's ass for what Aizen thinks. Hell, we can get that mofo crunk with a few shots of Jager."

"And tequila." Grimmjow added with a grin. He was quite fond of tequila.

"I'm sure a bit of Party in the USA can get him cr—" Grimmjow stopped talking, as a strange parade was coming down the hallway. It was composed of Ulquiorra, Szayel, Aizen, and Halibel. Ulquiorra was arm in arm with Halibel and Szayel, barely walking. A deep green blanket was slung over his shoulders, but he shivered nonetheless, and he was staring at the floor, looking pained and uncomfortable. Aizen was bringing up the rear, looking serious and guarded.

"Shit, son, Ulquiorra looks dead." Grimmjow said loudly, pointing at Ulquiorra. Noitora bobbed his head in agreement. Ulquiorra looked like he'd collapse at any moment. They thought they heard a whimper escape him.

"Yes, well, he's quite sick." Szayel said primly. The flu test had come back negative, so Szayel was taking Ulquiorra to the lab for a quick blood test and any other test he saw fit. And perhaps and IV, since Ulquiorra's stomach was being very uncooperative with even the smallest sip of water.

"Yeah, you look really bad." Noitora agreed, joining the parade. He wanted to see  
Ulquiorra suffer. Ulquiorra barely acknowledged his presence. And Grimmjow, feeling uncomfortable standing alone, joined the group. Once in the exam room, Ulquiorra laid down on the gurney and looked at the ceiling bleakly.

"Do you think it's monopolyosmosis again?" Grimmjow whispered to Noitora.

"Well, it can't be that because monopolyosmosis doesn't exist." He said flatly, rolling his eyes. "It's mono, dumb ass. And that's a question for Szayel."

"No, it can't be mono." Halibel said smoothly. "Mono only affects you once. Ulquiorra's already over that."

They fell silent when they saw Szayel pulled on clean gloves and approached Ulquiorra.

"Besides the obvious nausea, are you in any sort of pain or discomfort?" Szayel asked congenially. He gently pulled Ulquiorra's shirt up and began to poke and prod Ulquiorra's abdomen. Szayel was relatively pleased to find that Ulquiorra's abdomen was fine—his muscles contracted duly as Szayel applied pressure, and nothing felt out of place, distended, or hard. Poor Ulquiorra was shivering at Szayel's cold hands, and finally pushed Szayel away lackadaisically. It was the same thing when Szayel attempted to listen to Ulquiorra's heartbeat and breathing. Although his heartbeat was normal, Szayel noticed Ulquiorra had mild chest congestion.

Upon checking his throat, Szayel took note of some redness in the back, but it wasn't significant enough to be concerned with. And that was when Szayel waltzed to the cabinet. Blood collection tube—check. Butterfly needle—check. Szayel looked over his shoulder at Ulquiorra's arm. He'd probably need a tourniquet. Ulquiorra's veins weren't prominent enough.

"This will be over in five seconds," Szayel said with a brief smile, approaching Ulquiorra carefully. For a moment, Ulquiorra blankly stared at the equipment Szayel was holding. And then it dawned on him. All in one move he backed away as far as possible without falling off the gurney, pulling both arms close.

"No." he said sternly.

"Yes." Szayel replied with a chuckle. "The flu test came out negative. I _need_this blood test."

"Over my dead body." Ulquiorra said darkly.

"Then that'll be after you die from whatever is causing your ridiculously high fever." Szayel snapped. The comment almost disarmed Ulquiorra. He frowned and his lips parted slightly.

"So you're saying you have absolutely no idea what is wrong with me." Ulquiorra said, a hint of mockery in his voice.

"Well," Szayel sniffed loudly and adjusted his glasses, "I'm fairly certain you have a virus, but the blood test will _confirm_ that hypothesis."

"You really have no fucking clue what's wrong with him, do you?" Grimmjow asked lazily. Szayel shot him a look of contempt.

"Of course I do! Don't make stupid accusations." Szayel scoffed. "Now, Ulquiorra. What hand do you write with?"

"He's right handed," Halibel put in. She knew Ulquiorra would evade the question. Ulquiorra was smart, but outsmarting or talking Szayel out of something was unheard of.

"Left arm, please." Szayel said coldly. When Ulquiorra refused to comply, Szayel took the matter into his own hands. He firmly grabbed Ulquiorra by the wrist and pulled in a futile attempt to extend his arm. Ulquiorra stood his ground holding his arm glued to his chest.

"Grimmjow, hold down his legs. Halibel, hold his shoulders down." Szayel waved them over. Grimmjow was relishing every moment of Ulquiorra's terror as he pinned his ankles down. Halibel assumed her post, and that was when Ulquiorra gave up. At one point, she had to pin down his right arm with her elbow. Ulquiorra wasn't the type to flail around uselessly, but he was forcing himself away with that arm.

Meanwhile, Szayel made a fast knot on the tourniquet and immediately found a good vein, taut as a garden hose. Holding the butterfly needle at about fifteen degrees to Ulquiorra's outstretched arm, Szayel thrust the needle into Ulquiorra's vein, eliciting a shuddering gasp from Ulquiorra. It wasn't the needle itself that caused pain, as the antecubital fossa has few nerves, but he could feel the small needle in his vein.

Stark watched, mildly mesmerized, as the rivulets of dark blood filled the tube in about four seconds. Szayel withdrew the needle, smacked a cotton ball over the pinprick sized hole, and then firmly pressed a bandaid over it. Done. He turned on his heel and went straight to chem, where the actual diagnosis would be confirmed. Ulquiorra was staring at the ceiling, mouth open slightly, eyes wide, blank and unblinking—catatonic.

"Are you alright?" Halibel asked, patting Ulquiorra's shoulder. He gave a jerky nod, but remained sprawled out on the gurney.

"I think he died inside." Grimmjow said loudly.

"Was he ever alive inside?" Stark asked with a smirk. Noitora snickered and Halibel sent a reproachful glare their way. At once, they simmered down. Grimmjow sauntered over to Stark and Noitora, standing a good ten feet from the gurney in a little huddle.

Ten minutes later, Szayel returned, with a deep frown etched into his face.

"So what's wrong with him?" Halibel said in an almost demanding tone.

"Well…" Szayel paused to flip through some papers he had in his hands. "Other than a borderline anemic iron deficiency, nothing." Szayel gave a high pitched, frenetic laugh before flinging the papers on the counter. "And an iron deficiency doesn't cause fevers of that caliber."

"Really? You don't know what's wrong?" Halibel said, taken aback. Blood tests made diagnosing easy. In a complete blood count (CBC), white and red blood cells were counted, as well as platelets, hemoglobin, hematocrit, and infections. But Ulquiorra's results were normal, except for the hemoglobin and iron levels, which were a bit low. But just low enough so that a slice of fish or an egg would solve the problem.

"We're missing something. Something big…" Szayel said ominously, eyes narrowing. "Do you have a headache, Ulquiorra?"

"N-No."At that exact moment his eyes wandered to the left to glance at the cabinet in a strangely coy move. Ulquiorra was still recovering from the traumatic blood draw. He reached with a shaky hand for the pale blue blanket on the gurney.

Szayel plucked a thermometer from his pocket and wedged it into Ulquiorra's mouth. The fever hadn't gone down much. It was now at one hundred four point six.

"You're not dehydrated either, according to the test results." Szayel said thoughtfully. He took a second look at the test results. "Oh, and you're a bit low on electrolytes, but that's a result of the vomiting. Gatorade should fix you up."

"I don't want to eat or drink anything…" Ulquiorra said hesitantly. He made a slightly pained face and pulled the blanket up to his chin.  
"You're going to have to at some point." Szayel said firmly. "I'll keep you under observation for six hours. If you're not a little better by then, I will start an IV and run a few more specific blood tests." He smiled at Ulquiorra sympathetically. "Any questions?"

"A request," Ulquiorra muttered. "A trashcan nearby would be appreciated."

"Still nauseous?" Halibel asked. She felt his pain…morning sickness was torture. And it was every single morning for a month or two. Halibel honestly thought she wasn't going to make it.

"More than I was two minutes ago." Ulquiorra said tautly.

"In that case, we'll let you relax." Szayel said smoothly. With that, he whisked everyone out of the room, dimmed the lights, and led the gloomy parade to Aizen's meeting in the dining room.

"He has a high fever and is more nauseous than before," Szayel reported mechanically, almost gagging at the noxious scent of the tea. It was the kind of scent that reached down your throat and tickled it, bringing about the unpleasant wave of queasiness with the sudden contraction of the stomach. Christmas cookies were on the table, as well as candy canes to be festive. Aizen nearly spewed his tea, however, when he heard the news.

"Still?"

"Well, it's only been three hours since we woke him up." Szayel said reasonably. "If it is a virus—"

"Szayel has no fucking idea what's making Ulquiorra sick. FYI, kiddies, FYI." Grimmjow sniggered disdainfully.

"What?" Aizen demanded, disregarding Grimmjow's absurd slang. He set his mug down a little harder than intended and dark tea spilled over the rim, pooling around his mug.

"That's not true!" Szayel interjected sharply. "It's a virus."

"Nah man, the test results showed nothing. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada." Grimmjow's smirk was threatening to slice his face in half, and malice gleamed in his electric blue eyes. Szayel wanted to fling his mug of boiling hot tea and Grimmjow, but masterfully restrained himself.

"Wait a minute. Everybody stop talking." Stark said stiffly. He massaged his temples, sighed, and then looked up with a deeply petulant and perplexed expression on his face. Stark should've been pondering the graveness of the situation, but he wasn't. Stark was pondering tonight's dinner.

"So…" he stifled a cough and continued. "What exactly is going on?"

"Ulquiorra is quite sick," Halibel jumped in before anybody could slander Szayel's reputation further. "He has a high fever and keeps throwing up. The flu test came back negative; the blood test, normal. We don't know what's wrong with him yet."

"Thanks for clarifying, dear." Stark said with a nod. He shivered slightly and tugged the collar of his coat closer to his neck.

"Right, then." Aizen said, stony faced. He opened his leather planner and searched for his meeting's agenda absentmindedly. "I am very pleased to see that the decorations are coming along nicely…"

"It's freezing." Stark remarked, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat. He sniffled and coughed lightly, squirming in his seat.

Grimmjow had his socked feet up on the table, flipping through GameInformer and gnawing on half frozen peppermint bark.

"Failure." Grimmjow snorted.

"Well, get some coffee." Halibel suggested. "You could use the caffeine too."

"Eh, I'm good."

"You want some LSD? Crack? Shrooms?" Noitora offered. Why he suddenly offered drugs would remain a mystery. He looked up from his ghetto laptop. It was held together by duct tape and was missing eight keys, not to mention the fact it hadn't been wiped down or even cleaned in years. The screen was cracked, the corners were chipped, and the screen quivered and teetered precariously every time he opened it. It was slow and heavy and overridden with viruses, worms, and other unpleasant things. Although he could've gotten a new one, Noitora had a habit of getting attached to things, namely, computers.

"Noitora…really?" Halibel asked wearily. She shook her head and wondered if Aizen knew of this drug addiction.

"Fuck yeah! That's how I have fun, bitch." Noitora said with a shrug.

"Son, you're going to get killed." Grimmjow said, raising his eyebrows eagerly. "I'm above the influence, so I don't do drugs."

"But you drink like a mother." Noitora pointed out. "The best beer pong sessions are the ones with you in it."

"What can I say—the liver must be punished."

"The fact you know what a liver is proves my point, ho. Only real alkies know what a liver is." Noitora sneered. Halibel would've countered, but instead muttered something nondescript and sat with Stark, who was halfheartedly sipping coffee she had whipped up for him. He was gazing at the wall, eyes blank and unblinking. He looked haggard and ready to get comfy under the covers and sleep for days.

And then, Szayel joined them, looking concerned but trying to hide it with a straight face that didn't quite mask the pensive frown. He was racking his mind for any illnesses or disorders that Ulquiorra could've been suffering from.

"Have any of you noticed anything strange about Ulquiorra prior to this bout of illness?" He asked them, looking very grave.

Grimmjow and Noitora exchanged furtive looks. They had seen something odd in Ulquiorra's room the other day, but didn't think much of it. Szayel caught this motion and prompted them to tell him what they saw.

"Painkillers." Grimmjow said. "Lots of them. Three bottles on his table, and some spilled on the ground."

"Oh really?" Szayel said, raising his eyebrows. "I would've noted an overdose in his blood. There was a slight amount of ibuprofen in it, and that was because of the injection I gave him."

"Well, whatever. Did any of it look illegal, Noit?" Grimmjow asked.

"Nope. Just your run of the mill Tylenol, Motrin, Sudafed, Advil." He said with a slight smile. He felt really cool knowing all these drugs. And he knew so many more, right down to the side effects, prices, and dosages. Of course, it was only natural to overdose, because that's what the kool kidz do.

"It's questionable nonetheless." Szayel said, making note to go examine Ulquiorra's room later. "Anything else?"

"Nah. What, do you suspect he's on drugs?

"I was leaning toward psychosomatic illness, but that's a possibility too." Szayel said. Psychosomatic illness is an illness induced by the mind and not by an actual pathogen. It's the idea of thinking one is sick without actually being sick. In this aspect, it is a mental disorder. It would have to be treated with psychotherapy and possibly drugs.

"Actually, I think he's depressed." Noitora put in. "Like get him some Prozac now."

"Agreed. He never smiles, laughs, or does anything. He lays around in bed until ten thirty doing absolutely nothing and what comes out of his mouth is depressing." Grimmjow pointed out. "Even his vomit."

"We'll test him for depression later." Szayel squirmed a bit at the thought of Ulquiorra being depressed. It was an odd but feasible idea.

"And he can't have an infection, otherwise it would've shown in his blood test." Halibel put in. "Nonetheless, let's do a physical exam for self harm."

"And if it's internal self harm?" Noitora said. A possibility. Szayel looked dubious.

"An x-ray." Halibel said with a firm nod.

"A chest x-ray and abdominal x-ray." Szayel said halfheartedly. "It could be pneumonia or something even more obscure."

Ulquiorra was half asleep when they shuffled into his room. An arm was limply dangling off the side of the gurney, and he barely acknowledged them when they came in. Noitora, Stark, and Grimmjow kept their distance.

"Hey, Ulquiorra. We're going to take a chest x-ray." Szayel raised the siderails and pulled the gurney behind him at a slow, easy speed, so as to not nauseate Ulquiorra further.

"Are you feeling any better?" Halibel asked him.

He shook his head minimally and refused to open his eyes. The procession continued down a cold hallway that became even colder once entering the x-ray room. With some prodding, Ulquiorra dragged himself off the gurney and onto the table. Szayel opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of metal that was slipped under Ulquiorra's back.

"Hold your breath—I'll let you know when you can breathe." Szayel whisked everybody into an adjacent room. Ulquiorra heard a high pitched whizzing and a beep that followed, along with Szayel's command to breathe. Szayel returned, adjusted the x-ray machine, and before Ulquiorra knew, he was done.

The x-rays were pinned to the light box. The chest x-ray was flawless, as well as the abdominal x-ray. Szayel was rendered speechless and perplexed. They were clear x-rays—no liquid in the lungs or any obstructions in the intestines, no foreign objects. Ulquiorra's bones appeared to strong, even, and in one piece. Nothing wrong at all.

The procession was silent as they wheeled Ulquiorra back to the room he'd be staying in. It was relatively large, a comfortable size. There was a nice TV in a corner of the room, and it smelled clean. While Ulquiorra rolled onto the hospital bed halfheartedly, Szayel washed his hands at the sink, pulled on gloves, and then bustled over to the cabinet, producing an IV kit. He hung a bag of clear fluid on a pole nearby, letting the long tube snake down onto Ulquiorra's lap. Ulquiorra, with a sour face, handed him his left arm, looking away. Why fight, anyway? The tourniquet was tied around his upper arm with a flourish from Szayel.

From the kit, Szayel plucked an 18 g cannula—but this one was different. Inside the cannula, there was a flexible, soft catheter. He held it firmly in his left hand, prodding the inside of Ulquiorra's elbow. Ulquiorra twitched each time Szayel's cold fingers touched him. Szayel found a taut vein, pulsating under the tip of his index finger. He inserted the cannula, and Ulquiorra gave a massive, convulsive twitch. Although it didn't hurt, he could feel the cannula going deeper and deeper into his arm, almost poking him. And then, Szayel removed the needle and twisted the tube tightly to the soft catheter that was left behind. He flipped the stopcock, smacked tape over the IV, and that was it.

"Since I don't know how long you're going to be here, I decided to use a flexible catheter for more comfort." Szayel said, peeling the gloves off his hands.

"It is more comfortable." Ulquiorra agreed. "But I'm cold."

Szayel moseyed back to the cabinet, produced a blue blanket, and threw it over Ulquiorra, who gratefully accepted and pulled it up to his chin.

But then the strangest thing happened. Five days later, Ulquiorra was sitting with the rest of the Espada at Christmas dinner, fever free and substantially energetic. He was fine, as if nothing had ever happened. He had a plethora of gifts, ranging from Prozac from Noitora to a water bottle from Grimmjow.

Halibel got the best gifts, hands down— a beautiful, expensive coat from Stark, a philosophy book from Ulquiorra, a bra from Noitora (how he knew her size baffled everyone), a breathalyzer from Grimmjow, and a fancy medical textbook from Szayel.

Stark got socks, three Starbucks giftcards, and a pillow. Grimmjow was very pleased to rip open his gifts and to find shutter shades, a Lolcats picture book, band aids, and a toothbrush. Because Szayel had an affinity for odd contraptions, he was relatively indifferent to the pencils, Windex, coloring book, and Midol. But he did love the pocket protector Halibel had given to him. It made him indescribably happy, especially when paired with the full nights of sleep he had managed to obtain recently. Though Szayel lost sleep trying to determine the cause of Ulquiorra's illness, all was fine and dandy that evening. Noitora got money, condoms, socks, a glowsticks, and a leopard print speedo. He was quite pleased, especially with the speedo. When summer came around he could wear that to his parties. It was Noitora who cooked Christmas dinner, actually. And it was absolutely scrumptious.

"Merry Christmas, bitches." Grimmjow said flinging his fork down on an empty plate. "'Tis the season to be jolly. Which is synonymous with fat, like that bastard Santa."

"Oh?" A cruel look slunk onto Ulquiorra's still countenance. "Did Santa elude your trap?"

"That fucker not only avoided my trap, he also left a note for me that told me to suck his fat candy cane dick." Grimmjow threw his arms up in exasperation. "I mean, who says that anymore?"

The corner of Ulquiorra's mouth spastically twitched upward, but he made no reply. He forced a cough but not keep the smirk off his face no matter how hard he tried. When it got the best of him, Ulquiorra suddenly busied himself with his drink and was looking fixedly at one of the corners the dining room. Grimmjow made everyone shut up and reminded them for the thousandth time since October that his birthday was in about seven months.

All in all, December ended nicely, and so the year two thousand ten began.

* * *

This is, in a sense, a cliffhanger. I'm not done with Ulqui yet.

Reviews will make me put chapters up faster, by the way.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20: Gotta Catch Em All

* * *

Szayel was calmly sitting at his desk one evening. Early January had brought about a pleasant, easy atmosphere to Las Noches, like the Pax Romana in the Roman Empire. People were getting along, nobody was trying to strangle others, and interactions were smooth and unhurried. In fact, nothing out of the ordinary had happened since Ulquiorra idiopathic illness some weeks ago. Rooms still had holes bashed into them by Grimmjow (since he never used doors), Ulquiorra was still a misanthrope, and Noitora had managed to make it thus far without acquiring any STDs—a true miracle. Yup, nothing out of the ordinary. Generally speaking, The Espada were all smiles, except for Ulquiorra, who apparently lacked the muscles he needed to smile or actually look pleased. But he was an exception. Even Szayel, who had spent most of last year PMSing at anyone that looked at him funny was quite content. The weather was colder than ever—scarves were wrapped snugly around the necks of most of Las Noches' inhabitants. Snow blanketed the sand and fell thickly from the cloudy skies—which meant that more injuries would be coming in, with all the skiing attempts. However, since Szayel's spirits were so high, he didn't mind stitching people up and bandaging ankles.

The past week had been quiet. Szayel had gotten a full night of sleep the night before, and he had conducted extensive research in the chemistry field. He had been fooling around with chemical equations, double bonds, and compounds for the whole day. It had tickled him positively pink. He finished typing up a report on the new element he had discovered and what it could be used for. He even had time to clean his office, and it was now spotless—papers and scans were filed away conveniently, and his bookshelf had been dusted. Szayel paused and took a dainty sip of the coffee he had nearby. With a contented sigh, he leaned back in his seat and stretched. Dinner was on his mind. But before he could even stand up from his chair, he heard loud, urgent footsteps nearby—and many voices, jumbled together. He ignored it—probably Ilforte setting some fraccion on fire.

And then, Grimmjow and Stark clattered into the office, holding Ulquiorra between them. Szayel looked at Grimmjow and Stark first, both of which looked terrified, and white faced. Ulquiorra was between them, head lolling, twitching vaguelyr.

"He went stiff and fell out of his chair," Stark said breathlessly. "And then he started twitching and grinding his teeth and getting all tense but flailing around! We poured water on him that Noitora tried to bless and shoved food into his mouth, to wake him up or whatever, but—"

"He bit me!" Grimmjow shrieked, holding up a bleeding left hand. "I'm going to get rabies!"

"A seizure…" Szayel said, awed.

"It was really bad in the kitchen. His back arched and he was…possessed. We brought him when he stopped flipping out, but, as you can see, he's still not completely conscious…" Stark explained. Szayel rushed over to do a quick physical examination. Ulquiorra was unconscious, catatonic, unresponsive. His temperature was normal. Szayel frowned—something wasn't right. A seizure of this caliber—from what Stark described, it had been a tonic-clonic seizure, the most severe. There would be many tests to do, from blood tests to CTs and many others to rule out illnesses and conditions. Such a seizure was a red flag, especially when someone had been in perfect health previously.

"He felt dizzy and tasted something nasty in his mouth before dinner," Grimmjow said tremulously. "He said that just minutes before food was served." Ulquiorra gave one final jerk before going limp.

"Right." Szayel frowned, and groped for a dose of valium in his pocket. He quickly administered it, and whisked the group off to an observation room. Ulquiorra was placed on the bed. Szayel noticed a thin stream of blood issuing from his mouth.

"It was fucking scary!" Grimmjow said with wide eyes, shaking his head. "He was possessed. Nobody knew what to do."

"Halibel told us to leave him alone, but we couldn't! He was going insane. As Grimmjow said, possessed." Stark said vehemently.

Szayel scowled at them over the rims of his glasses. They should've listened to Halibel. Because of their stupidity, Ulquiorra had bitten his tongue convulsively, leaving many lacerations. Szayel unconcernedly wiped the blood off Ulquiorra's chin.

"This is very serious." Szayel said gravely, pressing his stethoscope to Ulquiorra's chest, rising and falling quickly.

"What do you think it is?" Stark asked curiously, studying Ulquiorra. Ulquiorra was asleep now, but conscious. Szayel had pinched his arm, and Ulquiorra made a subconscious move to brush his hand away.

"It could be anything from a brain tumor to epilepsy." Szayel said. He shifted the stethoscope a bit and listened to Ulquiorra's firm, strong heartbeat. No arrhythmia, but he did have a very slight bradycardia—abnormally slow heart rhythm—due to the Valium. Valium is a relaxant, often used to reduce the severity of seizures and anxiety attacks.

"What's that? Pepto-Bismol? And what's a too-murr?" Grimmjow asked with a striking similarity to Brian Fellows, contorting his face like a little kid.

"A tumor is an abnormal growth of cells. If the cells are normal, it's a benign tumor. If the cells are abnormal—genetically different with a whacked out mitotic cycle—it is a malignant tumor. Now, malignant tumors can metastasize—which means they can spread to other parts of the body…" Szayel trailed off and watched Ulquiorra critically, who was finally beginning to stir.

"Ulquiorra!" Grimmjow shouted. Ulquiorra's eyes flew open at the yell and he looked around, confused, and definitely annoyed by the unnecessary wake up call.

"Did you beat those demons?" Grimmjow demanded vigorously.

"Shut up." Ulquiorra said bitterly. He turned to Szayel groggily and asked, "What happened?" He grimaced at the taste of iron in his mouth—not to mention the pain on his tongue. The room was tipping from side to side, the temperature was fluctuating at a nauseating, unnerving speed. Ulquiorra had to close his eyes, but the dizziness continued.

"You had a seizure." Szayel said with a solemn nod.

"I don't remember it." Ulquiorra said guardedly, eyes narrowing minimally.

Grimmjow shot a pointed look at Stark, who replied with a grave nod. Perhaps an exorcism would need to take place.

"People don't usually remember seizures." Szayel said gently, patting him on the shoulder.

"What _are _sea-jures?" Grimmjow asked stridently. He added a complementary snigger.

"Seizures are a result of abnormal electrical activity in the brain, which can be centered in a particular lobe or involve the whole brain. Seizures can be as mild as a few twitches or out-of-control like Ulquiorra's." Szayel said. "During a seizure, loss of—"

"Okay. What's a lobe?"Grimmjow asked impatiently.

"It's a part of the brain. There are five lobes—the frontal lobe, right and left temporal lobes, parietal lobe, and occipital lobe." Szayel cut Grimmjow off before he fired another question. "Seizures can be different depending on which lobe the electrical activity is focused in. The frontal lobe is basically the forehead. Temporal, as the name suggests, is by your temples. The parietal lobe is in the upper back of the head, and the occipital lobe is on the lower back. A blow to the occipital lobe can be deadly, as that is where the cerebellum is. Pressure on the cerebellum leads to pressure and trauma to the brainstem, which controls involuntary activities, such as breathing and heartbeat. Needless to say, if it damaged, life support will be in order. Such damage is irreversible, by the way."

Ulquiorra had lost track of the explanation and Grimmjow looked more confused than before. Stark was staring at a wall. He lost Szayel even before he started.

"Right. So in which lobe did Ulquiorra have the seizure?" Stark asked slowly.

"Oh, it involved the whole brain." Szayel frowned deeply. "Since it was so severe, at least by your description. And that greatly concerns me." Szayel searched for something in the pocket of his lab coat, and from it he produced a silver penlight. He clicked it on and shone it into Ulquiorra's left eye. Ulquiorra winced and tried to shove Szayel's hand away. The light was burning his eyes, making them water. But, Szayel was satisfied in seeing Ulquiorra's pupil contract tautly to the light. The right pupil contracted just as flawlessly.

"Look up. Down. To the left. Right." Szayel commanded stiffly. Nothing abnormal. Ulquiorra was able to follow each command. "Open your mouth and stick your tongue out." Szayel chuckled at the horrified expression that came over Ulquiorra's face at the order.

Szayel smiled and said, "I'm not going to swab, relax."

Ulquiorra then complied. Soft palate and pharynx contracted in an orderly, accurate fashion. No damage to the cranial nerves was apparent so far.

"Sit on the edge, knees hanging over the side." Szayel ordered. He frowned and carefully observed as Ulquiorra maneuvered himself to the correct position. He didn't appear to have any difficulties—good. With the side of his hand, Szayel hit Ulquiorra just below the knee—right where the patellar tendon was, where it connected to the tibia. Ulquiorra's tibia gave a little jerk forward.

"Oh, good. Reflexes are intact…" Szayel marked something in a manila folder. "Stand up and walk to the doorway and back."

"What does this have to do with demons?" Grimmjow asked pointedly. "I mean, seriously."

"Demons?" Szayel prompted vaguely. "This is a neurological exam. I'm testing for basic functions."

Ulquiorra slipped off the bed and began to walk to the doorway. But Szayel noticed he was tipping to the right a little bit. He had an arm out to steady him. A gait abnormality. Ulquiorra returned to the bed, but Szayel said nothing of the odd walk. Making note of it, he moved on to the next tests. Szayel ambulated to the cabinets and pulled them open. Stark could see a vial, and a needle in Szayel's hand. Blood test. Ulquiorra would not like this. But, the blood test was going to be a very helpful aid in making a diagnosis—the blood revealed any problems occurring deep in the body, based on protein, sodium, electrolyte levels, blood cell counts, and platelets in the blood. This routine, fairly innocuous test (for most, anyway) was often a lifesaver, especially when the signs of illness were too nondescript to diagnose based on them alone. That, and seizures have many causes.

Szayel rounded on them, wearing gloves and holding the equipment in hand. Ulquiorra looked at Szayel, and then to the phlebotomy kit—he understood. Glowering at Szayel, Ulquiorra warily leaned away. Szayel expected this reaction. He knew Ulquiorra would be difficult.

"No." Ulquiorra said firmly.

"Yes." Szayel said with a little smile. "Now, give me your left arm so I can find a vein."

"I refuse." Ulquiorra said primly.

"Don't make me use force." Szayel said. Ulquiorra had had blood tests before. He shouldn't have been putting Szayel through this. Szayel's smile became colder, and he crept closer to Ulquiorra. Ulquiorra regarded him warily. He didn't like needles…he hated them. He also hated blood, especially his own blood. It made him feel faint. But that was only in a hospital setting, with the blood neatly sealed in a tube. In gory battles, no problem. The spatters of blood symboled victory.

"I'll pay you five bucks, Ulquiorra." Grimmjow said, waggling his eyebrows. Stark chuckled—the comment seemed to cause Ulquiorra to look a little less defensive, but he looked gloomier than ever. He frowned and held out his left arm to Szayel.

Szayel rolled up Ulquiorra's sleeves, and for a moment, Ulquiorra almost took his arm back. Szayel prodded the crook of Ulquiorra's elbow—the antecubital fossa—searching for a good vein. He did find two, but none of them were favorable enough. He moved onto Ulquiorra's right arm, and found a perfect vein—Szayel could feel the blood pulsating when he prodded it, like a taut garden hose. He wouldn't even need a tourniquet.

With a deft move, Szayel swabbed the site of penetration. Ulquiorra's face had become ashen—he looked faint, and was a bit tremulous.

"Will this hurt?" Ulquiorra asked quietly.

"No. There aren't many nerves in this area." Szayel said with a small smile, accommodating the needle in his fingers. "You've had blood tests before. Relax."

"Five bucks, Ulquiorra, five bucks." Grimmjow reminded him.

"Look away from the needle." Stark suggested. "It'll be over in five seconds."

Ulquiorra looked at the ceiling, breathing hard. His vision was getting a bit fuzzy. He felt a vague pinch, eliciting a sharp gasp from him, and the room started to swim around him.

"Szayel, he's looking pretty bad." Stark warned. The tube was already half full with dark blood. Szayel, however, appeared to be unconcerned. He pulled the needle out, pressed a cotton ball to the small hole, and smacked a band aid over it. Ulquiorra immediately pulled his arm close to him and leaned back into the pillows, looking wan.

"See? You lived." Szayel said, depositing the vial into Lumina's outstretched hand. She skittered out of the room.

"Barely." Ulquiorra said weakly. He shuddered uncontrollably. Grimmjow took note of this and shot Stark a look—the devil was going to enter him again! Grimmjow appeased him by throwing a ratty five dollar bill in Ulquiorra's face.

"Szayel, can doctors cure possessions?"Grimmjow asked in a mysterious, vague tone of voice.

"Hmm? Pardon? I don't think I heard that right." Szayel said darkly, plucking gloves off his fingers. He threw them over his shoulder and landed them perfectly in the trashcan. Szayel then grabbed the blood pressure cuff from wall and wrapped it around Ulquiorra's upper arm. Ulquiorra squirmed as it inflated.

"Oh, you know, the crazy shit that happens in horror movie when people get possessed and need exorcisms." Grimmjow said emphatically. "Can you, as a doctor, cure that?"

"Depends." Szayel said airily. He looked at the monitor—one nineteen over seventy one. Good. "Did he start prophesying Satan's return?"

Grimmjow took a breath to reply, but then stopped. He looked at Stark.

"He didn't do that, but—"

"In that case, no." Szayel said with a cold smile.

"It would be appreciated on my part if you refrained from making foolish insinuations that I am channeling spirits." Ulquiorra said coldly. Suddenly, Ulquiorra made a pained, stricken face. Defeated by something only he could detect, Ulquiorra slid under the covers and stared blankly at the ceiling.

Szayel caught this little retreat.

"What it is?" he inquired.

"I'm dizzy." Ulquiorra murmured.

Something was wrong. Dizziness, seizures…what else? Szayel would stop at nothing to make a diagnosis. The signs Ulquiorra had exhibited matched up to dangerous illnesses and conditions. And because Ulquiorra detested medical personnel, these symptoms might have been present for a long time.

"Dizzy." Szayel echoed. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach—Ulquiorra was not going to tell him anything. "Have you been nauseous recently?"

"Occasionally." Ulquiorra answered evasively, eyes straying away from Szayel's intense gaze. "Not always with the dizziness."

"How about headaches?"

"…Yes." Ulquiorra muttered, defeated. "Persistent, annoying headaches."

Dizziness, persistent headaches, nausea, seizures. Szayel was certain this was not epilepsy.

"And how long has this been happening?" Szayel pressed. Ulquiorra had the maddening habit of withholding important information. Szayel could almost see the cogs turning in Ulquiorra's head, trying to generate a lie or a shaving a few months off the actual time.

"A few days." Ulquiorra said evasively, looking down at his hands.

"That," Szayel said with a condescending look, "Is a lie."

At that answer, the room seemed to ice over. Grimmjow and Stark were able to feel the tension, the animosity that grew in the room. Szayel was lowering at Ulquiorra so furiously that Stark felt a twinge of fear within him.

"No, it's not." Ulquiorra said calmly. Szayel huffed and grabbed Ulquiorra's wrist, finding found that Ulquiorra's pulse said otherwise—it was much too fast for Ulquiorra to be telling the truth. His pupils were a bit dilated.

"Your pulse, Ulquiorra, seems to betray your lies. _How long have you had these headaches_?"

"Liar liar, pants on fire!" Grimmjow said, pointing at Ulquiorra accusingly.

"A little more than a year." Ulquiorra said quietly, fidgeting. But he wouldn't say anything about the severity. When he had that fever weeks ago, the headaches were so intense, so sickeningly strong that he couldn't even move.

Szayel paused and blinked a few times, disbelieving. His eyes went wide, but then another expression came over his face. It was one of concern, reluctance, and most of all, fury.

"So…you mean to tell me that you've been living with these symptoms for more than a year." Szayel said in a dangerously quiet voice, eyes flashing.

"That is correct." Ulquiorra murmured.

Szayel gave a cold laugh and shook his head incredulously. He had a bad feeling he knew what the problem was. And it would only take one more test to deliver the diagnosis—and verdict.

"I'd like you all to follow me." Szayel said thinly. He tucked the manila folder under his arm and led the group deeper in the medical suites. The temperature dropped, the rooms became sparse. But finally, he led them into a large, cold room, with a strange structure in the middle.

"Hey…that looks like that thing…" Stark muttered, pointing vaguely at the MRI machine. "The CT thing!" The MRI machine looked like the CT scanner, but it was shaped like a tight O with a tiny opening in the middle—a claustrophobe's nightmare.

"Oh, well, yes." Szayel said distractedly, pushing Ulquiorra onto the raised table. "But this one works differently—the CT scanner uses x-rays and emitters, this one uses magnetic resonance. As a result, no magnets or metal is allowed in the room once it's turned on. The magnets inside are extremely powerful. You don't have anything metal on your person, do you, Ulquiorra?"

Ulquiorra withdrew an impressive cell phone from his pocket and deposited it in Szayel's hand. Ulquiorra shifted uncomfortably on the table as Szayel pinned his arms down by his side and straightened out his legs brusquely. Szayel jammed a pillow under his head and looked down at Ulquiorra with contempt.

"You better not be claustrophobic." Szayel said airily.

"I'm not."

"Damn right you're not. You'll be out in forty minutes—_don't move_." Szayel gave a perfunctory smile and snapped some thick headphones on Ulquiorra's head. Ulquiorra, more confused than ever, simply complied—he had a feeling Szayel wouldn't quite appreciate any rebellious moves. Szayel jabbed some buttons on the MRI machine, and the little bed Ulquiorra was on began to move into the little hole. He couldn't hear anything because of the headphones. Inside, Ulquiorra felt cramped. It was a bit dark in the machine. But other than that, everything was fine…

When Szayel walked into the little office adjacent to the MRI room, he was displeased to find Grimmjow spinning around in the spinny chair that was next to the computer. Szayel rolled his eyes and let Grimmjow have his fun, simply because he'd ruin someone's life today.

Stark was looking around the small office, and then prodded Szayel for some conversation.

"So…nice weather, eh?"

"I suppose." Szayel answered petulantly. He paused as Lumina entered the room. He cut her off before she could even draw breath to speak. "Oh, hey. There's an autopsy waiting for me—start the Y incision, open up the ribs, get a few samples...and I'll be there in about an hour."

"Actually, sir, Mrs. Halibel-Stark is here." Lumina stepped aside to let Halibel in, who appeared to be flustered. She was holding a thick stack of papers that she shoved into Szayel's arms.

"It's epilepsy," she said breathlessly. "I have proof." She pointed to the papers.

"Epilepsy?" Szayel raised an eyebrow and flipped through the pages. He scoffed and handed the papers back to her. "It's not epilepsy, I'm ninety seven percent sure."

"Is that so?" Halibel said airily. "Read through my papers. It's epilepsy."

"It's not epilepsy!" Szayel growled.

"Prove it!"

"I'll have proof in about thirty minutes!"

"And I have proof right here, in these papers." Halibel said emphatically.

"Proof? You call that proof? Without scans, without proper samples, it is worthless!"

Grimmjow looked from Halibel to Szayel as they fired responses at each other. Eventually, he got bored, and decided to look at the computer screen, where strange images were forming. They were black and white, with some intermittent gray zones. Grimmjow felt a chill down his spine—was this Ulquiorra's soul on the screen? He pointed at the image on screen, and said in a distinctly awed tone, "It's his soul, Stark."

Stark leaned forward to examine it. He frowned, and looked over at Szayel and Halibel, who were still in heated argument. Szayel had already busted out a medical book and was holding thick MRI scans of someone's head. Stark, was, in fact, going to ask Szayel about this peculiar image, but decided to just agree with Grimmjow instead.

"Ugh. How many minutes have passed?" Stark asked.

"Dunno, like, twenty?" Grimmjow surreptitiously began to sift through a bunch of papers on the desk, all marked with Szayel's unruly, zigzag handwriting. Some looked important, others looked like stray ideas. But Grimmjow couldn't read anything he had written—Szayel handwriting was grossly indecipherable. But, Grimmjow was able to make out an abbreviation of some sort…AVM, it said. Grimmjow tossed the papers aside and found a random piece of paper to doodle on.

"Are you blind, woman? Can you not see that _I _have won this argument?"

"No, because you're wrong, Szayel…"

"Man," Grimmjow sighed. "I hate it when smart people start arguing over smart people things."

"Me too." Stark admitted. He stole a quick glance at the two. Szayel was going through all of her papers, red pen in hand. He shook his head and circled many things, shouting "WRONG!" each time he found erroneous information. Stark sighed. The picture on screen had become clearer, more defined. It distinctly resembled a head now, each groove of the brain a medium gray color. There was a white section as well, just to the right of the brain's midline. But Stark didn't know what it meant. The yelling stopped as Szayel left the room to get Ulquiorra out of the scanner. And then, Stark was pushed out of the way by Szayel, who stared at the MRI scan for a long time, brow furrowed, eyes pensive and brooding.

"It's an arteriovenous malformation." Szayel said, tapping the white section. His guess had been wrong…he thought it was malignant brain tumor. But an AVM was better than that, though not by much. "AVM for short."

"What is—" Grimmjow started, looking perturbed.

"I'm getting to that!" Szayel said scathingly. "As the name suggests, an AVM is a tangled mass of arteries and veins—it resembles a tumbleweed, in my opinion." Szayel reluctantly handed one of the scans to Grimmjow. Grimmjow could make out the blood vessels, woven like coils of smoke around each other when he held the scan up to the light.

"Eh. I think it looks like a Pokemon." Grimmjow said with a shrug.

Szayel rolled his eyes and snatched the scan back. "As I was saying, there is no concrete blood flow in AVMs. When it bleeds, it makes for a dangerous surgery and can damage the brain significantly. So, to remove it," Szayel smiled and did a little jig of excitement. "I get to do brain surgery on you, Ulquiorra!"

Ulquiorra's eyes widened as he turned a pale, smoky gray. Stark looked like someone had punched his gut, Grimmjow was looking at Ulquiorra's head, wondering how Szayel was planning to get in there—and at the same time, he was dreading it. Halibel looked unfazed, but did look concerned. The silence in the room was so tense that nobody dared to speak.

"Is there no other way to get rid of this…AVM?" Ulquiorra asked somberly.

"Well, yes, but yours is of formidable size." Szayel said with a frown, glancing at the scan. "It's deep in the temporal lobe. Surgery is the surefire way to remove it."

"No." Ulquiorra said icily. "I'd rather die."

"Hmm." Szayel gave him an equally frigid smile. "That's too bad. You don't have a choice in this matter."

"I believe I do." Ulquiorra returned.

"Right. So when it ruptures and reduces your brain to a pulp who are you going to come to?"

Ulquiorra frowned, confused.

"Me. I'll be doing the postmortem exam, of course." A nasty, bloodthirsty grin spread over Szayel's face. "Oh, yes. I can picture it already. Ulquiorra, laid out on the cold table…" Szayel dramatically pressed the tip of his index finger on Ulquiorra's left shoulder, and whispered, "The Y incision starting here," Szayel drew his finger down to Ulquiorra's sternum, sharply pivoting and moving down Ulquiorra's body. He made the same swooping line from Ulquiorra's right shoulder to the sternum. "Ribs open, heart cut away, trunk organs removed in a single tug, head sliced open," The grin on Szayel's face was diabolical. "And of course, the dark venous blood spilling from your pulverized brain."

Ulquiorra seemed unfazed, but he was a bit fidgety.

"And what are the odds of this AVM rupturing?" Ulquiorra asked stonily. He, quite frankly, didn't give a damn at this point. Szayel was going to force him into the surgery, but Ulquiorra was four ranks above him. Therefore, Ulquiorra not only had seniority but more physical strength.

"Well, since your human age is under twenty—" Szayel began.

"Barely." Ulquiorra put in sharply, eyes cold. "You can't calculate my death."

"The chances of it rupturing are, oh…" Szayel sucked in his cheek and glanced at the ceiling. "I'm putting you at about sixty one point four point seven percent chance of bleeding in the next year, judging by its size and your age as an Arrancar."

"Right." Ulquiorra said with a skeptical glance at Szayel. "Which means it's probably not going to happen. I don't want the surgery—that is final."

Szayel smirked and at glanced at the door for a moment. But then, he frowned suddenly and held the MRI up to the light, squinting. Then he blinked a few times.

"Correction—it has already bled a bit." He said in an oddly distant voice. But then he had an epiphany. "It all makes sense now. The fever…" Szayel studied the MRI once again. "Of course…the fever must have been a response to the bleeding! And the low hemoglobin! And the nausea, the lack of appetite…it all fits. The bleed and the AVM itself must have put pressure on the hypothalamus, which regulates hunger." Szayel said eagerly, eyes blazing.

"Oh, you're getting the surgery. For sure." Szayel said coolly, "This Wednesday the fourteenth, bright and early at six. It'll take about four hours or so...oh, by the way, you three—" Szayel pointed at Halibel, Stark, and Grimmjow. "Will be assisting me. This is going to be a very tricky surgery."

So. Today was Sunday, the eleventh of the first month of the two thousand and tenth year after Christ's birth. Ulquiorra had three days to live. What could he accomplish in those meager hours? What could he do to leave a mark of his fleeting existence? No—that was wrong. His existence was lie.

Halibel looked fairly eager and Stark looked reluctant. Grimmjow for once looked beside himself with excitement. He had seen brain surgery on cartoons before, meaning it would be the _exact same _in real life, duh. Szayel looked like he was going to explode with joy. He was staring at the site of surgery on the side of Ulquiorra's head with starry eyes.

"Oh, that reminds me, Ulquiorra. Let's run a few more tests on you today. I want an angiogram and CBC." Szayel grabbed Ulquiorra by the coat and dragged him out of the room. The more images Szayel had of the AVM, the easier it'd be able to pinpoint and excise. An angiography was an X-ray mapping technique of the inside of blood vessels. Clots were easy to find this way. And the blood test was going to be fairly easy as well.

Ulquiorra sighed inwardly. The seconds were ticking by.

* * *

I've been asked about the titles of my chapters. They initially make no sense, but they make a reference to something that occurs in the chapter. In a twisted way, they are related, though one might require a degree of lunacy to understand it.

Yes, there will be neurosurgery next chapter. That I can promise you.

Review to help me get an A on my history final/worst subject.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21: It's Not Rocket Science

* * *

In a sense, Ulquiorra was dragging himself to his deathbed. It was five fifty three in the morning—the corridors of Las Noches were dim, and most of the luckier Espada and Arrancar were still lost in their dreams. Ulquiorra was in a nightmare. He had experienced defeat against Szayel's wishes once again. Ulquiorra hadn't even bothered to change out of his pajamas…his pants swept the floor and he wore a cheap sweatshirt that had the Eiffel tower on it—one of the souvenirs Aizen had given him after his many escapades. If Aizen knew that Ulquiorra had been forced into a nasty surgery, Aizen would surely step in and kill Szayel. But no. Aizen was currently at some spa in California.

Ulquiorra sighed and stood before the doors to Szayel's lab, angstfully contemplating his situation. With a jolt, he realized he'd be lying around in the lab on his eighteenth birthday, drugged up. But he was too tired, too unmotivated to even bother mulling it over. Ulquiorra eased the door open and slipped into Szayel's lab. As always, it was cold and smelled funny. Ulquiorra's mood worsened when he saw he had a welcoming committee.

"He's here!" Grimmjow announced. "Stark, look! He's out of uniform! The demon must have taken over him, LOOK!"

"I'm right here, Grimmjow!" Stark said angrily, whacking Grimmjow upside the head.

Ulquiorra rolled his eyes. He wondered why Szayel even let them help out. Grimmjow would boast the scrubs (swaggering and strutting the lab as if he owned it) and then pass out at the sight of a scalpel. Stark would…Stark had a satisfactory record, regarding queasiness. He looked cold in the green scrubs and didn't appreciate the morning or Grimmjow's senseless yelling.

"I might as well die in comfortable clothing." Ulquiorra said morosely.

Stark smiled sympathetically and waved Ulquiorra over—Stark had been a victim of Szayel's pushiness with surgeries before.

"I don't think you'll die." Stark said reasonably, leading him down the hallway.

"It doesn't matter. I've already died once."

"Way to kill the mood, Ulquiorra." Grimmjow said with a frown. "Maybe it's that demon. Let's name him Rocky."

"If that's the case, then Rocky has been part of Ulquiorra for many, many years." Stark said with a sigh. Honestly, Grimmjow was idiocy incarnated. Ulquiorra scowled slightly but said nothing as he sat stiffly on the bed. He knew the drill. Blood pressure, oxygen saturation, heartbeat, IV…Ilforte had already shown up with the classic Grantz I-know-something-you-don't look that was almost as maddening as Noitora's sexual innuendos.

"Well, well, well…this is interesting, bro." Ilforte jammed the thermometer in Ulquiorra's mouth. Ulquiorra almost gagged on it. "According to the MRI, Szayel's going to have to go pretty deep..." The thermometer beeped, and Ilforte pulled it out of Ulquiorra's mouth. Ulquiorra threw him a menacing look.

"Dude, oh my God, a freaking brain! I wonder what it looks like." Grimmjow was beside himself with excitement. Ilforte absentmindedly nodded as he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Ulquiorra's upper arm.

"I wonder how long you'll last." Ilforte said snidely. He glanced at the monitor, bearing satisfactory readings. "Well, everything seems fine to me, Schiffer. BP, heart rate, etcetera. Szayel will be here in a bit."

Ulquiorra suddenly felt ill, and an ominous feeling crept over him. He knew too well that Szayel's presence indicated imminent surgery. Shortly after, Halibel came in, dressed in scrubs and looking quite poised and professional.

"Good morning," she greeted coolly. "I was just talking to Szayel."

"What'd he say?" Grimmjow asked eagerly, almost jumping out of his seat.

"Oh, he was just explaining the craniotomy." Halibel walked calmly to Ulquiorra's bedside. She extended a hand hesitantly, and then placed a few fingers on the right side of his head.

"May I ask what you are doing?" Ulquiorra asked testily.

"Szayel is going to do the craniotomy here." She said tentatively. Ulquiorra's spine tingled when he realized she traced a circle on his head. It didn't seem like too large a circle, but it was still enough to put Ulquiorra in a state of mild panic. He nervously glanced at her.

"Ohh, wait…is he going to drill a hole in Ulquiorra's head?" Grimmjow asked, puzzled. He thought Szayel was going to slice off half of Ulquiorra's head, but apparently not…hm.

"Yes. A medium sized one—less than two inches in diameter." Halibel said with a savvy nod. "But, we will have to shave a small bit of hair off."

"No." Ulquiorra said sharply, pushing her hand away. He had never realized how much he loved his hair now that it would be taken away from him. It was so sleek and silky, falling perfectly around his face. Black as inkwell, his hair was also glossy.

"It's a small patch." Halibel said reassuringly. "And you can regenerate it, I assume."

A look of relief came over Ulquiorra's face for a moment, yet he remained unconvinced. She was about to tell him something else. And judging by the angle of her eyebrows it was something he wasn't going to like.

"Also, Szayel has decided to do an awake craniotomy. You'll be awake at intervals during the surgery." Halibel explained.

"Holy shit, are you for real?" Grimmjow asked, eyes wide.

"Yes." Halibel turned to him. "The reason he's doing an awake craniotomy is because the AVM is deep. We'll be able to ask Ulquiorra questions during the surgery to make sure Szayel hasn't hit or damaged any important, cognitive areas or nerves."

Ulquiorra looked more morose than ever. He looked like he wanted to die. At this point, he had faced defeat. There was nothing he could do to save himself from Szayel's scalpels. The thought of pulling a Noitora and running out crossed his mind, but he'd be caught, Valium-ed, and dragged to the operating room. Indeed, there was nothing he could do. Ulquiorra sighed heavily and leaned into the gurney.

"I'll start the IV." Halibel said, ripping open and IV kit.

"Since when do you know how?" Stark demanded, folding his arms.

"A while." She said evasively. Stark gave Grimmjow an exasperated look. Grimmjow frowned curiously and crept closer to watch. The tourniquet had been tied on Ulquiorra's upper arm, and the veins of his arm were more prominent, a vague blue outline under his papery white skin. Halibel prodded a nice vein on the underside of his forearm, satisfied.

Ulquiorra had to look away, however, when she plucked the cannula from the kit and inserted it parallel to his skin, guiding the thick, beveled needle deeper and deeper until it was all the way in. With a fast move, she connected the IV tube to the cannula, and that was it. She taped it carefully to his arm. It was only a matter of time before Szayel would show up…and he did, in fact, appear seconds later, garbed in green scrubs. His mask was undone, flopping over his chest. Ulquiorra shifted uncomfortably. He'd be dead soon, gone from the face of the earth…and he would have left no mark, no impact—his name would be forgotten.

"Well! Let's get started, shall we?" Szayel said cheerily. Ulquiorra clasped the rails once he felt his bed move, tense and anxious. His heart was pounding. This surgery was daunting mainly because Szayel would be drilling holes in his head and prowling around the crevices of his brain.

"You look nervous," Stark observed casually. He was walking right next to Ulquiorra, looking down at him with mild interest.

"Obviously." Ulquiorra murmured.

"Dude." Grimmjow said flatly, leaning over the rails and into Ulquiorra's face. "Szayel isn't going to let you die. He's fucking legit, man. Even though what he does is messed up, ungodly, and downright revolting. He's not going to let you die."

"Mistakes happen," Ulquiorra said coldly, eyes narrowing.

"Szayel doesn't make mistakes, dumbass." Grimmjow snapped, eyes flashing. "Mistakes are for losers."

"And if the scalpel slips?" Ulquiorra prompted coolly.

"Scalpels aren't used much in brain surgery, if at all." Szayel said over his shoulder. Eavesdropping win. "And I'd like it if you didn't make me sound like God."

"But you are," Grimmjow said sarcastically. "Unless it's a trap!"

Szayel ignored him. Grimmjow failed at life, anyway. Neurosurgery was quite touchy. The brain was extremely delicate—the slightest twitch of the hand could end a life. Szayel had very steady hands, even more as an Espada, but accidents could happen. Accidents could happen in any surgery. Of course, he hadn't killed anyone yet, but…there was a first for everything.

Once Ulquiorra was settled on the operating table, he remained still and quiet, as if he was silently bidding the world a good bye. Ulquiorra had finally accepted his fate, and when Szayel swung the light overhead, Ulquiorra knew it was over.

"So, Ulquiorra." Ilforte appeared overhead, looking down at him. "Since this is an awake craniotomy, you'll be awake for a bit to make sure Szayel doesn't kill you. We'll have Grimmjow ask you questions—" Grimmjow's head joined Ilforte, and he gave a childish little wave. "to make sure you're not completely fucked up."

Ulquiorra felt no need to reply, and simply nodded jerkily.

"You ready?" Ilforte asked.

"Do I have a choice?"Ulquiorra asked in a grave tone of voice.

"Good point." Ilforte disappeared. And a few seconds later, the oh so familiar feeling kicked in—Ulquiorra felt his consciousness break away from common sense, the world was fading pleasantly around him. He felt heavy, like a magnetic pull was clinging to him. His thoughts became pictures, and he closed his eyes. Although Ulquiorra wanted to retaliate, to fight the slumber overcoming him, he could not.

Grimmjow and Stark watched, unnerved, as the frown disappeared on Ulquiorra's face, as his fists unclenched and his back relaxed. It was as if he had died already. Szayel was by the instrument tray, inspecting drill bits with Halibel to comment and provide input.

"Dude, I can't wait to ask him questions." Grimmjow whispered, doing an excited little jig on the spot.

"Assuming you make it that long." Stark quipped, smiling slightly.

"Shut up." Grimmjow snapped. "At least I didn't pass out during…oh, wait…"

Grimmjow and Stark decided to stand as far as possible from the operating table, just by exit, in case they needed to pull a Noitora and GTFO before it was too late. But that did not last—some five minutes later, they were called back to the operating table, where Ulquiorra was already shaved, intubated, and ready to have his head cut open. He head was in a fancy three point clamp that would keep it perfectly still during the delicate procedure. As if that wasn't strange enough, there was an odd metal band circling half of Ulquiorra's head. It had two flexible arms connected to it that were likely retractors, due to their shape and small size, and this odd contraption seemed to be part of the skull clamp. In general, it looked like some sort of torture device, which was the reason Grimmjow was slightly unnerved by it.

"This is so exciting!" Szayel said. He had a small scalpel in hand firmly, and he was almost bouncing on his feet. "Anyway, let's get down to business…"

Szayel sank the scalpel into the site of the procedure, making a slow, shallow incision. Blood seeped from the incision and shot down the drapes, leaving behind crimson trails. Meanwhile, Szayel was opening the cut and splicing away muscles with small scissors. Halibel suctioned the blood away.

"Stark, there are white clips that look like comb binding on the tray." Szayel said, pointing vaguely. "Raney clips, they're called."

Stark looked down at the instrument tray, where a variety of scary tools were assembled menacingly as they glinted under the light. Long, slender scissors and pneumatic drills and retractors all rested idly, awaiting their use. But Stark managed to find the white little clips, complete with the clip applier. He grasped one of the clips in the applier and moseyed over to Szayel, who stepped aside.

"The clip should pinch the skin, and make sure they're tight." Szayel said. He smiled—his eyes crinkled over the surgical mask he wore. Stark shot him a dubious glance but said nothing, awkward applying the clips around the perimeter of the skin flap, which would be held back to expose the bone flap. He was extremely reluctant to touch any part of Ulquiorra's head, whether it was with his hands or the body of the clip applier. Stark was standing as far as possible from Ulquiorra, arm bent at a strange angle. His stance was so peculiar and off-balance that Szayel actually started laughing.

"Come on, get closer." Szayel chuckled, elbowing Stark in the side. "You've seen blood before."

"It's not that." Stark grumbled. He fixed another clip onto the scalp. Halibel dabbed away small puddles of blood forming with gauze and allowed Stark to continue.

"Then what is it?" Szayel inquired.

"I don't like…" Stark paused to catch his breath. All of a sudden he felt a little off, and his knees felt weak. With the bright light focused on the incision, the cranium seemed to blinding him, and the red muscle was shiny, catching the light. The visceral repulsion Stark was feeling had swiftly become full-force queasiness. He forced the clip applier onto Halibel and murmured, "I can't do this." Stark wordlessly retreated to the end of the operating table and planted his feet so that he stood close to Grimmjow.

Halibel shot Stark a reproachful look and waved him over.

He shook his head.

Halibel sighed and finished off the Raney clips, neatly assembled along the border of the opening. Szayel nodded in approval. Halibel pulled the skin flap back once clipped, and peeled it from the striated muscle. It was an eerie feeling as she held the rubbery, warm skin that was Ulquiorra's scalp. It slipped through her fingers, blood staining her gloves.

"Good. Stark, get back here." Szayel commanded.

"Do I have to?" he asked uncomfortably, squirming on the spot. "This whole brain thing is kind of…nasty."

"Do work, son." Grimmjow said wisely, shoving Stark in the direction of Halibel and Szayel.

"Speak for yourself." Stark muttered.

Szayel grasped a small, spatula shaped device and scraped the muscle away from the bone. Stark twitched each time he heard the quiet scritch-sritch of metal scraping bone. For this reason, it looked like he was having a low-caliber seizure. After minutes of painstaking work and scritch-scritch sounds, Szayel finally set the periosteal elevator back on the instrument tray. Halibel already knew what came next—she handed Szayel small hooks connected to a wire that were reminiscent of fish hooks. Szayel jammed the hook in the muscle that was now peeled away along with the skin. He left the rest to Halibel.

"Scalp retraction," Szayel indicated the flap of skin held open and away from the shining cranium. He suddenly clapped his hands. "Okay, people, here's where the fun begins! Come over here." Szayel announced. Grimmjow stalked over and stopped in his tracks about two feet away from Ulquiorra's head. Grimmjow was blatantly staring at the skull.

"Oh my God, it's like blinding me. Why is it so white?" Grimmjow demanded. He made a crude gesture in the direction of Ulquiorra's head.

Szayel looked up from the incision and gave Grimmjow the longest are-you-fucking-serious look ever. For a moment, Szayel's hand, grasping a bizarre cylindrical device, jerked in the direction of Grimmjow.

"You're kidding, right?" Szayel asked. "That's the skull."

"Wait a minute! That's not his brain?" Grimmjow nearly screamed. He flailed his arms around spastically, which prompted Stark to kick him in the shin.

"Of course not!" Szayel said, deeply appalled.

"Oh, shit, man." Grimmjow said. He folded his arms and shrugged in plain defeat. "Then I have no fucking idea what the brain is."

"Evidently." Szayel said airily. "The brain will be exposed shortly. And by shortly I mean fifteen minutes."

In a slow, dignified move, Szayel raised his arm and up to his shoulder, hand grasping a silver, cylindrical instrument resembling the top half of a screwdriver. At the bottom, a massive drill bit. It was bulkier and had a few grooves circling it, and a rubber tube connected it to another machine—a pneumatic drill.

"The perforator." Szayel said, brandishing the drill vaguely. "It's going to be used to make holes in the border of the bone flap so we can remove it one piece. "Who wants to try?"

"ME!" Grimmjow screamed, throwing his hand out to snatch the perforator from Szayel. Szayel, gifted with quick reflexes held it out of Grimmjow's reach.

"You sure?" Szayel questioned, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, you couldn't differentiate between the skull and brain until now."

"So?" Grimmjow snapped. "Son, it's a once in a life chance to drill a fucking hole in your enemy's head."

Szayel folded his arms in what seemed to be an irritated gesture and frowned slightly, considering. Stark and Halibel exchanged questioning glances. They were on Szayel's side, obviously. Grimmjow's thrill was not worth Ulquiorra's life.

"Well reasoned." Szayel harrumphed, handing the drill to Grimmjow.

"Aw, yeah!" Grimmjow gushed, rushing to Ulquiorra's head. Szayel cut him off.

"The drill will be at a ninety degree angle to the cranium." Szayel explained. "Hold the perforator with two hands, one on top of the other, like you'd hold a joystick."

Noitora, who had been unusually silent through the surgery allowed a brief, sardonic snicker followed by the classic. "That's what she said." Stark kind of smiled and Halibel rolled her eyes. Honestly. Men.

Grimmjow firmly placed the tip of the drill bit against the skull with Szayel's guidance, and held down a button on the drill. At once, the strident sound of the drill bit cutting through bone shattered the silence in the room. Grimmjow could feel the power of the perforator in his hands as it vibrated so quickly and vigorously. He began to smile in the very same awed, maniacally amused fashion Szayel often did.

Szayel tapped Grimmjow's hand and Grimmjow stopped drilling. He wheedled the drill out of the hole and peered down at opening he made, shining red. Halibel siphoned a bit of blood away.

"Nice. Now make four more of those."

When Ulquiorra found out Grimmjow had actually helped in the delicate procedure, he'd likely have a brain hemorrhage out of sheer fury.

The drill itself was angled from the body, but it was the drill bit that was most peculiar—it was shaped like a hook, but smooth and flat at the end. The opposite end was connected to a long black rubber tube that was hooked up to some other machine, as the craniotome was a pneumatic drill. The rest of the Espada hadn't seen anything like it.

"This is a special kind of drill used to cut through the skull." Szayel explained, examining the odd drill. "It stops cutting as soon as it cuts through the bone so that the dura isn't harmed. Oh, by the way, the dura is the white sheath protecting the brain. You'll see it in a bit."

As soon as Szayel started drilling, a white dust began to rise. It was oddly pungent and smoky in smell, but not offensive or particularly nauseating. It swirled in the air, and rose high above their heads.

"What is that?" Grimmjow asked. His eyes followed the forceps Halibel held, in which the bone flap was clamped. She placed it on a sterile draping nearby.

"The dusty stuff? Bone dust." Szayel said. He handed the craniotome back to Halibel, who set it on the instrument tray. "It's like sawdust. But with bone. Now, everyone, come closer."

The rest of the Espada shuffled over and huddled around Ulquiorra's head. Szayel cut through a thin white membrane and pulled it back, revealing the pink, glistening brain with red and purple blood vessels on it, like roads on a map or branches on a tree. Stark's stomach contracted unpleasantly and Grimmjow moaned slightly.

"S-So, that's the brain, huh…" he said in a high pitched, weak voice.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Szayel sighed. He was reminiscent of preteen girls swooning over Twilight. He appeared to be quite infatuated with the brain. "Think about it—everything we say, think, and do—"

"What about feel?" Grimmjow asked vaguely, taking a half step back. Stark glanced at him—he knew what the pasty complexion forecasted.

"Of course. _Everything _is controlled by the brain." Szayel said emphatically. "Now, then. Who wants to be on retractor duty for today?"

They were distracted by Halibel, who was putting tiny, c-shaped clips on the perimeter of the burr hole. Stark figured the clips were used to hold back skin and keep the incision open without having bulky retractors in the way. They also seemed to act like hemostats, as there was very little bleeding. Ulquiorra's affinity for retractors would have come in handy in this situation, but he was knocked out with a hole in his head…

The MRI scan was on a screen nearby, with anterior, posterior, sagittal, and superior view of the brain. The angiogram was next to it. Even Stark could tell it was in a tricky spot. The AVM was deep, close to the brain stem, which Szayel had explained was critical to life. Stark felt nervous just being there, but Szayel seemed to be relatively tranquil.

"Ilforte, start waking Ulquiorra up." Szayel commanded. He firmly grasped the retractors that were connected to the head clamp. He prodded the brain softly for a groove in which to insert them, glancing up at the MRI, frowning, and repeating the procedure. Finally, he slowly pulled them apart. Halibel focused the light and peered into the opening.

"There's the nidus," she said in a low voice. Halibel pointed at the knot of veins and arteries, like a bag of worms, dark mauve in color and glistening with translucent cerebrospinal fluid. The AVM was formidable in size, and it was simply unnatural. Its malignant appearance seemed to be accentuated the by pink, innocuous brain it had nested itself in. Stark took an awed breath.

"And here's where things get difficult." Szayel said under his breath. "I'll have to clip the vein and artery that lead to the nidus…start asking questions, Grimmjow."

Grimmjow fist pumped enthusiastically and scrambled to the side of the operating table. Since Ulquiorra was partially blanketed by drapes, Grimmjow had to lift one up a little to get a good look at Ulquiorra's face. His eyes were blank and glazed over, his lips were slightly parted.

"Sup, Schiffer? How's it going?" Grimmjow asked, waving a hand in front of his eyes.

"Is it over?" Ulquiorra inquired blankly.

"Good to hear you're alive!" Szayel chuckled and briefly looked up from the craniotomy to study the MRI scans.

"What day is it?" Grimmjow asked.

"The day I die." Ulquiorra replied. Ilforte snorted and looked Szayel. For once, he was on his toes, having to monitor the anesthesia so that Ulquiorra could be awake and not feeling anything. But strangely enough, the brain does not have pain receptors.

"Ha ha, very funny." Szayel said snidely. He tuned them out as the work became more and more meticulous. Now, an involuntary twitch of his hand could end Ulquiorra's life. He felt the sweat on his forehead and the tension all over his body. This was it. The artery he would clip was a large one, thick and purple and glistening with cerebrospinal fluid, deep in the brain. The magnifying lens he wore over his regular glasses made it imposing and threatening. But Szayel brushed the thought aside and held his hand open, awaiting the long, slender clip applier, which resembled a gun. But the 'barrel' was long, narrow, tipped with claw-like grasps securely loaded with the clip. Ulquiorra had been knocked out again, and everything was quiet.

"Everybody be quiet." Szayel commanded. He held the applier confidently and focused the light. Once the tip of the clip applier was magnified and in view, he held it still, touching one of the feeding arteries. The feeding arteries branched off a main artery. The main artery itself would not be clipped, just the feeders, that way the nidus would receive no blood flow. Ulquiorra had nine clearly defined feeder arteries. With a firm pull on the trigger from his index finger, the clip was applied. Szayel breathed a sigh of relief. Halibel dabbed away a bit of cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) with a miniscule slice of gauze.

Stark, Halibel, Grimmjow, and Noitora, all stood nearby, silent and apprehensive as they tried to peek into the small hole packed with gauze, retractors, and the slender clip applier. To be safe, Szayel added another clip. He looked up at the angiogram. Good—two more arteries of substantial size needed to be clipped. Those were in even trickier spots. One was under the one he just clipped, which now involved a very thin retractor to move a bit of brain tissue aside and elevate the ligated artery. Szayel repeated the meticulous, tedious procedure eight more times until all the feeder arteries were tied off safely and effectively. This took well over an hour. Already, the nidus of the AVM had turned a darker, more sinister color with the lack of blood flow. Szayel stepped back and waved them over.

"See the nidus?" he asked, pointing to the tangle of blood vessels. He didn't actually have to ask the question, as the nidus was far too conspicuous to be missed, even by an untrained eye. "See that vein?" Another unnecessary question. Cordovan brown in color, the draining vein was a fat, snake of a vessel that struck anxiety. It was nestled in the brain tissue in an almost innocuous fashion, feigning normalcy. Luckily, the AVMs typically have only one draining vein. Upon clipping it and cutting it, the nidus would be resected. He could then go back and snip the feeder arteries without risking any hemorrhage.

"That's the draining artery. Once I cut it, the worst is over." Szayel said calmly. "I'd let you guys help me out, but this is risky—"

"Szayel, no offense, but I don't think anyone ever wanted to help you in surgery in the first place." Noitora said flatly.

"Ah, touché." Szayel wagged a long, gloved finger. CSF and blood shimmered on the tips of his fingers. "Halibel hand, me the second clip applier. Let's finish this up!"

The draining artery happened to be superficial to the brain and Szayel didn't have to pry open more folds of Ulquiorra's brain to access it. Halibel dabbed away CSF and held her breath as Szayel applied the first clip tightly. A second one followed for back up, and the nidus was officially cut off from any circulation, but not cut away from the many membranes and vessels that circled it, not the mention the brain tissue around it. Though the retractors held most of it out of the way, there was still some partially covering the AVM. Szayel grasped miniscule scissors and deftly snipped the feeder arteries. Despite the tricky nature of the AVM resection, Szayel worked quickly. His accuracy was remarkable, especially at the speed he worked. For once, Noitora and Grimmjow felt respect for Szayel thrum within them. Not only was he accurate, he was also graceful and handled the surgical instruments like an extension to a dear appendage of his. The fact he was removing a formidable AVM with such efficiency awed them. Stark could only marvel at Szayel's skill, and Halibel herself was taken aback. She knew Szayel was skilled, but his were top notch. He was an excellent surgeon, truly.

From the feeder arteries he cut seeped small amount of blood, but Halibel quickly cleared crimson liquid away. Noitora had decided to help as well, stuffing gauze here and there to keep fluids out of the way. Suction was somewhat intractable and too forceful to use on the delicate brain. When Szayel announced the imminent severing of the draining vein, tension congealed in the room once again. Halibel and Noitora had gauze at the ready.

"If pressure needs to be applied, do so firmly but slowly. The brain if soft, like tofu, so use your discretion." Szayel warned. He took a deep breath and focused. He heard his heartbeat throb in his ears, but tuned it out. All the mattered right now was the scissors and the vein. Nothing else. The scissors were light in his hand, comfortable in his grip. With the slightest upward flex of his index finer, the draining vein was snipped cleanly. Halibel and Noitora attacked like vultures to stop the bleeding. Szayel was extremely pleased to see that it did not bleed very much. Even if it bled a tad bit more, the body would get rid of it naturally, and it would only bleed so much, as the feeder arteries were long gone. Excellent! Now the nidus could be extracted.

"AVMs put pressure on the rest of the brain, since they lodge themselves in the brain itself. Once we remove the nidus, you'll see the imprint of where it was in Ulquiorra's brain." Szayel said brightly. However, this could cause a problem. The sudden change in intracranial pressure could cause bleeding to occur spontaneously. Such hemorrhage was impossible to halt and death would be the only outcome. This was, however, rare, but feasible nonetheless. Back to the surgery—Szayel would have to go around the margins of the AVM to resect it. Armed with scissors, gauze from Noit and Hal, and several scans, he went in for the kill. With forceps, he went around the AVM experimentally to see how he could remove it. Noitora jammed some gauze in a narrow sliver of space between the AVM and the brain to ensure better visibility of the nidus. Noitora slipped in a retractor and pulled brain tissue out of the way in a careful, but forceful manner. Szayel prodded the nidus with his forceps. It was relatively tough. He held the nidus aside with the forceps and snipped away a thin membrane that had kept the AVM in the brain. With that loose and cut away, he was able to continue slicing the membranes. And about twenty minutes later, the nidus was ready to be resected. It reminded Szayel of tonsil removal—jam the forceps in there, squeeze and pull. Effortlessly, the nidus was resected and dropped into a specimen container for research. Stark, who held the container, prodded the AVM with a finger. It was slick, but stiff and unyielding to the touch. Stark withdrew his hand noticed dark, sticky blood on his finger. He looked back at the site of operation. Pink, healthy brain had been repressed under the AVM. But it was not just a brain, it was Ulquiorra's brain. Every thought that congealed in his mind and every word that flew from his lips came from the recesses of his brain. Every breath and morose blink of an eye was attributed to the powerhouse that ran his body. And now his brain would be free from high pressure, which was detrimental to the whole brain.

"And there you have it. AVM removal." Szayel said with a smile. "Good work, everyone!"

"It was all you, bro." Grimmjow said quietly. "I mean, damn. You're a fucking beast."

Noitora mutely agreed. Stark was oddly moved by the procedure. His paradigm had flipped. He was enlightened by this surgery, and saw surgery from a whole different perspective. Curiosity was ravaging him inside—what would it feel like to pull that nidus out, what does the brain feel like? Oh, those wonders burned within him.

Szayel left Halibel and Noitora to sew up the dura, and lighthearted conversation drowned out the rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor. Once the dura was sealed, the bone flap was placed back in the hole like a puzzle piece, and Grimmjow was allowed to drill pieces of metal over its perimeter to hold the bone flap in place. Skin and muscle was pulled back over the bone, and the incision was neatly stapled closed. Noitora wrapped the gauze around Ulquiorra's head, guffawing about how it looked like a turban, and Ulquiorra was extubated and wheeled out to recovery.

Leads of all colors and tube of varying sizes were snaking out from under the heaps of covers Ulquiorra was buried. A catheter of acknowledgeable size was placed in his arm and a nasal cannula delivered a constant stream of oxygen to him. Other than that, Ulquiorra looked relatively comfortable. He had no expression on his face, in fact, Stark thought he looked oddly cadaverous. But as long as the sharp, zigzag lines appeared on the cardiac monitor, he was reassured. He found himself distracted by the cardiac monitor, bearing all of Ulquiorra's vital signs. Numbers changed and readings fluctuated, particular his oxygen saturation, which would not settle on ninety, ninety one, or ninety two percent. When it hit ninety four percent and a curvy line that followed his breathing had larger, deeper troughs and towering crests, Szayel stood up from a chair nearby armed with medications of all kinds. His breathing was quickening, as well as his heartbeat, and he would wake up soon. However, Szayel had a feeling Ulquiorra would wake up feeling quite disoriented.

"Remember, he's waking up from brain surgery. Be gentle with him." Szayel said, shooting a reproachful look at Grimmjow. "He's probably going to be dizzy." Grimmjow was already ignoring him by standing right over Ulquiorra, watching for any signs of life. An eyebrow quirked downward and Ulquiorra groaned slightly. Szayel smiled. Ulquiorra was awake, he just wanted to be dead. Finally, Ulquiorra opened his eyes. He recoiled slightly at the bright light above him. That, and he was looking up at the jubilant, grinning faces of Stark, Grimmjow, Halibel and Szayel. Not a pleasant way to wake up—almost nightmarish, actually. A wave of nausea washed over him overwhelmingly. Before anyone could yell something in Ulquiorra's face, Szayel asked the imperative question:

"How are you feeling?" Szayel asked, readying syringes.

"Nauseous." Ulquiorra said, rubbing his eyes. He looked endearingly listless and seemed to want to fall back into the covers and sleep for days. Szayel injected Phenergan into his IV and flung more questions at Ulquiorra to test basic memory, such as the current date, his birth date, and few other dates and occurrences. Without a pause, Ulquiorra answered all of them correctly, and his irritation at the simplicity of them escalated after each one. In addition, he was asked wiggle to every appendage. Szayel completely ignored the fact he had woken up from neurosurgery ten minutes ago. His intentions were good—Szayel was just trying to conduct a neurological exam without actually having to get Ulquiorra out of bed. Ulquiorra threw a menacing look at Szayel after Szayel shone that ungodly flashlight in his eyes to test his pupils.

"Ulquiorra, aren't you glad to be alive?" Halibel asked with a knowing smile. Admittedly, she could've rephrased that question to one that was less dramatic, such as 'Don't you feel better, Ulquoirra?' Nonetheless, she awaited his answer. He watched her warily. As he did so, Halibel could see his brain conjure an evasive little answer behind his sleepy green eyes.

"I want to sleep." He murmured. Halibel took that to be a yes—the fact he did not deny it proved her theory correct. Of course, Ulquiorra wasn't allowed to sleep. He didn't even bother asking why, because he knew that'd coax a long lecture from Szayel that would put him to sleep in minutes. Instead, Szayel put Grimmjow and Noitora in charge of keeping him awake. Grimmjow brought a massive vuvuzela that he'd blow every time Ulquiorra's eyelids drooped. Noitora brought a TV and some loud, violent video games. Szayel dropped by every hour to check vitals and neurological functions. The look on Ulquiorra's face when he walked in was one that should've been framed. Ulquiorra looked like he wanted to cry or go on a rampage.

"So, Szayel." Grimmjow said, leaning nonchalantly against the vividly purple vuvuzela. "How long should we keep him up?"

"Well," Szayel gave a thoughtful sigh. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was half past one. "Only until two or so."

"Thank God." Ulquiorra said under his breath. Grimmjow shot him a look and shoved a spoonful of lukewarm soup in Ulquiorra's mouth. Nobody wanted to eat Ulquiorra's lunch, not even Ulquiorra, who spit it out promptly.

"But you are welcome to visit." Szayel said. He cocked his head to the side and pointed to the vuvuzela. "By the way, what's that, Grimmjow?"

"This? Oh...it's a..." Grimmjow trailed off. If Szayel knew how loud and devastating its sound was, he'd surely cero it on the spot.

"It's a giant hookah. Kidding, kidding. Actually, you use it to yoga with. Demonstrate, Grimmjow." Noitora commanded, smirking. Ulquiorra rolled his eyes.

Grimmjow awkwardly wrapped a leg around it and fell into a tight backbend. He beamed at Szayel upside down, face flushing with blood. Szayel raised an eyebrow and said, "Well, that's not yoga. But I suppose it's fine to have it here. Just don't make Ulquiorra do yoga or whatever that is."

"We won't, Lord Szayel." Grimmjow and Noitora replied, eyes shifting to the miserable Ulquiorra. Szayel had been redeemed to be a God of some sort after that AVM removal. Noitora and Grimmjow practically bowed to him whenever Szayel shooed them away from Ulquiorra. But Ulquiorra would not be lonely the next seven days, for Grimmjow and Noitora wholeheartedly promised to visit every day. Why troll on the internet when you can troll in real life?

* * *

I spent about four hours researching craniotomes. Two for craniotomies and perforators, and another one or two hours researching the tools used. And another six or so researching AVMs and their removal. Time well spent.

I kept procrastinating on this…the vid that would have been _extremely _helpful was deleted. If I would have been more proactive to tackle this, I'd have a significantly better, more detailed chapter. Oh well, I'll learn more about AVMs when I get to med school or internship, won't I?

One more thing: having a brain hemorrhage does not happen out of anger, as I mentioned in this chapter. It's a saying, lol.

Enjoy, and please review.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22: Early Valentine's Day

* * *

The end of January came by relatively quickly, even with the freezing days topped with powdery snow that composed most of that month. Nothing important happened in those few weeks—all was tranquil, all was quiet in Las Noches, not unlike the eye of a hurricane. No medical maladies had occurred—a good thing for many reasons, one being that Szayel hadn't been seen or heard of since Ulquiorra's surgery. Indeed, he practically dropped off the face of the earth, but nobody bothered to go look for him to see if he was even alive. As for Ulquiorra, who had written a will before the surgery, he was fine. No evidence of brain surgery, except for a scar on his head that could only be found when searching through his thick black hair. Naturally, nobody got to see it—Ulquiorra didn't like being touched, much less fingers prodding his scalp and pulling his hair out of the way to see a meager scar. In post op terms, the main problem for him had been nausea and pain, but high and timely doses of Phenergan solved the issue duly. It did not, however, solve the problem that was Noitora and Grimmjow, harassing Ulquiorra to no end. At one point, Ulquiorra nearly wept as he implored Grimmjow and Noitora to leave him alone. A particular drug Szayel gave Ulquiorra caused him to become easily startled and jumpy, like a person on meth. In fact, Ulquiorra was so out of character that Grimmjow and Noitora were scared away by a particular outburst that ended their trolling adventures. Noitora would not forget that day. He and Grimmjow wanted to show Stark Ulquiorra's mental state while under the drug, so they brought him to Ulquiorra's room. Grimmjow offhandedly mentioned dinosaurs, but Ulquiorra went ballistic. He ripped out all the tubes in him and proceeded to beat Grimmjow so hard that he would have been killed had Stark not restrained Ulquiorra, throwing him on the bed and pinning him down with a knee until Szayel arrived with the valium.

Later on, Szayel confided in Stark that he was using Ulquiorra as a test subject for a special drug he was developing. "It's supposed to be an antipsychotic," Szayel said with a nervous laugh. Evidently, it had the opposite effect on Ulquiorra.

Meanwhile, Aizen was skiing in the powdery snow of the Alps in Switzerland with Gin and Tousen. He left his dear Esapada to freeze in the cold winters of Hueco Mundo. And so began the morning of February first.

Grimmjow woke up tangled in flannel bed sheets, Noitora's leg, Apache's arms, and Ilforte's long hair. In other words, it was a perfectly normal morning. He rubbed his eyes and sighed contentedly. Damn, he had a good dream. The morning would have been perfect, but one this was missing: Gin. Gin was in the fucking Alps skiing with those bastards, Aizen and Tousen. Grimmjow stole a glance at the rest of his bedmates—Apache would not be waking up anytime soon and Tesla was curled up in a tight fetal position, whimpering quietly. Noitora was staring at the ceiling, thoughtful and pensive for once. Ilforte was kind of sprawled on all of them, which was also completely normal.

"Psst! Noit!" Grimmjow hissed. Noitora looked at him.

"'Sup?"

"Let's go get some grub." Grimmjow suggested, gesticulating toward the door. Noitora agreed and clambered out of bed, whacking Tesla off the bed in the process. Tesla fell to the tile with a yelp and Noitora threw a pillow at him.

"Shut up." He told Tesla. The morning was colder than usual—even Grimmjow, hardy to the cold, was shivering violently. Noitora donned a fleece blanket and set out with Grimmjow, wrapped up in a trench coat he found lying around in Gin's room. However, Grimmjow had a feeling it didn't belong to him. It smelled like cologne was a little tight and short on him, but it got the job done.

"My chest hurts." Noitora said blankly.

"Don't go to Szayel." Grimmjow spat.

"I'm not retarded." Noitora scoffed.

"Could it be your Mofo's syndrome acting up?" Grimmjow asked, cocking his head. They turned into the kitchen. Halibel and Stark were chowing down on scrambled eggs and Szayel was sitting at the table, staring off into the distance. Ulquiorra took one look at them and recoiled.

"Why are you wearing my coat?" he demanded.

"Oh, this is yours?" Grimmjow said, looking down at it. It was definitely designer—well fitting and stylish, made of some tough, thick fabric. And no wonder it was small on him. Ulquiorra was about six inches shorter than Grimmjow. Ulquiorra rose from his seat and stalked to Grimmjow indignantly.

"Where did you—"

Grimmjow put his hands up in a gesture of defense. He widened his eyes emphatically and said calmly, "I found it in Gin's room. And it smells like cologne."

"I don't wear cologne." Ulquiorra said flatly, narrowing his eyes. He looked wary and tense.

"Well, neither does Gin." Noitora responded. They lived with him, and not once had they smelled anything wafting from Gin. At this point, Szayel and Halibel had come over to witness the mild commotion. Szayel unexpectedly leaned close and took a sniff of the jacket. He sniggered and shot a dubious look at Ulquiorra.

"You're not going to like it—that's Aizen's cologne." Szayel chuckled. Ulquiorra became rigid and said nothing more. A heavily perturbed expression spread over his face. Szayel was right. Ulquiorra's stomach knotted as the smell of Aizen raped his nostrils. Grimmjow stripped himself of the coat as one would an itchy sweater and flung it to the corner of the kitchen. He patted his pockets, searching for a lighter or blowtorch.

"Nasty. Now I smell like a fag." Grimmjow frowned. He was then distracted by Stark, who was examining something on his plate. Grimmjow, being as opportunistic as he was, nabbed a fork from a drawer and collected a large amount of food from Stark's plate and stuffed it into his mouth. The eggs were a bit bland, but the bacon was delicious!

Stark scowled at Grimmjow and backhanded him halfheartedly. It was such an Ulquiorra-ish thing to do, but Ulquiorra would've backhanded that bitch much harder. Out of the blue, Szayel sighed histrionically.

"Dude, guys." Grimmjow silenced the room by flailing his arms frantically. "We need to go outside and have fun."

He was only referring to his friends. Yes, even Ulquiorra was included under this 'friend' category, mainly because Grimmjow used the term very loosely. To him, a friend was someone he was Facebook friends with or someone who he thought was okay.

"Hey, Szayel—you doing alright?" Noitora asked, frowning a bit. "You look kind of…"

"White." Grimmjow spat. "Whiter than chalk, milk, and salt combined. The definition of _white_."

"Wan." Halibel said thoughtfully. She popped an antiobiotic in her mouth and took a long swig of water, washing the pill away. Halibel had been diagnosed with strep a few days ago, but she felt fine now. Halibel returned to her magazine unconcernedly. Most of the Arrancar were very fair skinned, anyway, from lack of sunlight. Not to mention the genetic reasons—but that was Szayel's forte, not Halibel's. But she was proud of her natural, golden bronze tan.

"Sick." Stark said with a nod.

"Cadaverous." Ulquiorra offered. At once, everyone's heads snapped to him. Ulquiorra muttered curses under his breath. Every time he spoke, the rest of the Espada gaped at him like he had mutated into some Martian.

"Oh…do I?" Szayel said faintly. He vaguely fanned himself and smiled halfheartedly. "I don't feel well. And I haven't slept since last Tuesday." He pointed a shaky finger to the dark circles under his eyes. They looked like bruises, so prominent against the skin of his face that was quickly draining of color. He leaned back in his seat and ran a hand through his hair exasperatedly.

"Eat something—maybe your blood sugar is getting low." Stark suggested nervously. He had a weird habit of tensing up around sick people. He didn't like sick people. They were too volatile and brought a miasma—literally—with them wherever they went. It was especially unseemly that Szayel, the doctor, scientist, and researcher of Las Noches, happened to have come down with something. True, he was still mobile, but the thought that things could take a turn for the worst unnerved Stark.

"I'm not hungry." Szayel said flatly. He had the unmistakable glazed eye of one stricken with illness, and looked quite miserable. The other espada were so used to seeing him angry or content or excited (or all of the above, given his bouts of mental instability) that seeing him looking so forlorn unnerved them. Szayel had evaded illness this year, it seemed, save for the norovirus that had hit nearly all of Las Noches in August. Szayel was a relatively healthy person.

"You look like crap." Grimmjow observed. "Someone check if he has a fever, I'm not touching him."

Halibel leaned forward and made a move to lay the back of her hand against Szayel's forehead, but Szayel held a hand up and rummaged for something in his lab coat. He withdrew a thermometer and popped it into his mouth. Noitora and Stark exchanged amused glances. Only Szayel. The thermometer beeped and he glanced at the temperature—nothing. He pocketed the thermometer and sighed. A throbbing headache was threatening to split his head, but he didn't feel like getting some painkillers. The medicine cabinet seemed to be too far away. Then, Grimmjow decided to rally everyone to his room.

"We're playing modern warfare two." He said, raising an eyebrow as he ushered everyone into his room/lair, which was dark, illuminated solely by the big screen TV bearing the start up screen of Call of Duty always, Grimmjow's room smelled vaguely of cheap food. The Espada piled up on Grimmjow bed and wielded the xbox remotes awkwardly, except for Apache, who was a video game veteran.

"So, what exactly is the point of this game?" Stark asked.

"To kill Russians, basically. And other stuff too." Grimmjow said nonchalantly. He snatched a remote from Noitora, who shot him an extremely offended look.

"Okay—Halibel, Stark, me and Szayel will go round one." Grimmjow said. "Ready?"

"Not really, but let's get this over with." Stark said with a sigh.

And so, the game began. A series of loud chinks and bangs as bullets were fired managed to kill Ulquiorra's concentration (as well as the Russians in the game). Ulquiorra had snuck a book in somehow. Alas, it was too dark to read. And too damn loud.

Now that Grimmjow was winning, his victory yells and phrases were louder than the game itself— "HEADSHOT, bitch! God, I love myself!"

"Can you relax a little?" Szayel asked, repulsed by Grimmjow's antics.

"No!" Grimmjow screamed. The veins on his neck were popping out and he was positively sweating. Szayel was beginning to get a little concerned—if he kept this behavior up, something bad could happen.

"I love this—" Noitora began with a chuckle.

But that thought went unfinished as dull, but powerful pain began suddenly in his knees and shoulders. Noitora let out an agonized moan as the chest pain flared up, only bringing on a wave of more hurt that tore across his ribcage. Even breathing brought a slew of spasms in various appendages and unbearable pain.

Halibel, having given up on the ridiculous game, handed the remote to Apache, who gratefully accepted. And as the most perceptive one of the Espada, she had noticed Noitora was not well.

"Are you alright, Noitora?" she asked politely.

"Y-Yeah. Just some weird pain is all." he said bleakly. The shooting pain continued, and it wasn't long before Noitora found himself short of breath and sweating more than Grimmjow. He knew the symptoms were bad, but he couldn't put them together, as everything was quite fuzzy. That, and he was resolute in avoiding Szayel's lab. He decided to lie down on the plushy bed, but a wave of wild anxiety hit him when his heartbeats became fast and fluttery.

"Noitora, you don't look too good." A wide eyed Apache said as she studied Szayel. "Szayel, come see." Seconds later, Halibel's head joined Apache's and Szayel's as they knelt over Noitora.

"You're right, Apache." Halibel said, mildly unnerved by Noitora's gray pallor. She took note of the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Halibel hadn't seen such gloom and misery on a person's face before. Noitora sighed and folded his arms.

By now, Grimmjow had paused his game and was studying Noitora with a scowl.

"Dude, does your chest still hurt?" Grimmjow asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Chest pain?" Szayel echoed tensely, orange eyes flickering to Noitora. Marfan syndrome immediately rose to the surface of Szayel's mind. Anger was threatening to choke Szayel. Noitora had no idea how serious Marfan syndrome was. He had no idea that chest pain could be a sign of imminent death. He had no idea that his condition made him extremely susceptible to all sorts of complications and extra illnesses. And now he was lying on the bed, sweating profusely and moaning in pain, clutching his chest.

"Noitora," Szayel pulled Noitora off the bed in a fluid motion and surveyed his physical state coolly, "Do you remember what I told you about your condition?"

"Sort of. Some shit about heart problems." Noitora replied quietly. He then realized what he said. His eyes went wide and he finally looked back at Szayel with real, sincere fear.

"You don't think—"

"It's possible." Szayel shrugged "All of you, come with me."

"You're going to have to calm down," Szayel hissed, placing a hand on Noitora's leg firmly. Noitora lowered at him furiously, and made a genuine effort to hold still. Noitora had been unusually tight lipped and uncooperative—instead, he was just complaining about how bad he felt and how much pain he was in. A fever was discovered, as well as a nondescript rash when Szayel conducted a quick physical examination. Apache was the one to point out some of joints appeared to be fairly swollen. "So, tell me. Where's the pain?"

Szayel felt like he had asked this question too many times, only to get a shitty response. If only his patients made this easy for him.

"Everywhere!" Noitora gasped. "Basically, every motherfucking joint I have on my body."

"I see." Szayel was onto something. Sepsis? No. Petechiae didn't stain his skin, nor was his fever too high—it was a low grade fever, actually. It wasn't an aortic dissection, otherwise Noitora would've presented with more extreme symptoms, or he would've been dead. Whatever it was must've been viral or bacterial, due to the fever…unless, of course, it was something more serious, like cancer or even a tumor. But Szayel was leaning more toward bacterial causes. He wondered, for a moment, if there was something Noitora wasn't telling him.

"Hm, Noitora—when was the last time you had sex?"

"Oh." Noitora smirked. "This morning, why?"

"I should've known." Szayel sighed. "Below the belt, have you—"

"Dude, chill. Down there, I'm cleaner than Lysol right now." Noitora chuckled. That man had avoided all STDs. How he managed to elude them was a mystery, considering all the partners he had had. Noitora would fuck anything on two legs, it seemed.

"Uh huh." Szayel raised an eyebrow and exchanged a dubious look with Grimmjow, who shrugged. "Prior to this week, were you ill?"

"Well, my throat was killing me like five days ago. But it's kind of gone now." Noitora muttered. He wiped sweat off his brow.

"Halibel was complaining of the same thing three days ago, and it turned out to be strep." Stark said, eyebrows contracting. Halibel confirmed his statement. She was no longer contagious due to the antibiotics she was on. At Stark's observation, all eyes focused on Noitora, who returned all of the stares with a coy shrug and a shy smile.

"It probably isn't anything serious." Noitora said nonchalantly.

"I'll be the one to decide that." Szayel said coldly. He shone a light down Noitora's throat and was not too surprised to see the back of his mouth was slightly red. Perhaps it was the remnants of a raging strep infection that Noitora had ignored. A blood test would be in order. Szayel decided to let someone else deal with that. He was tired and his head hurt. Lazily, he pointed to the cabinet.

"Someone get a blood test." He said. "I don't care who does it."

Apache bounded over and withdrew the phlebotomy kit. After prepping herself, she swabbed a place on Noitora's arm—the crook of the elbow, the antecubital fossa—and blindly stabbed the needle in. Noitora made no reaction. He watched, utterly calm, as his own blood filled the tiny vial. Impressive, Szayel thought. For once one of his patients didn't make a scene. Noitora was an excellent patient when he needed to be, for he did not balk at the thought of needles in his arms or other unpleasant foreign objects in his body. The tube was given to one of Szayel's fraccion, and Szayel asked Noitora more questions while they waited, only to get indefinite answers. Szayel didn't bother listening. He'd make the diagnosis based on the evidence of an infection. Szayel had heard the irregular, fluttery heartbeat, both of which were signs of heart inflammation. Inflammation was a response to bacteria. Mitral prolapse was not present at that time. Szayel was almost positive he knew what Noitora was suffering from, and he was proven correct when the blood test results were placed into his hands. Just as he suspected.

"Rheumatic fever." Szayel said, skimming the results. Strep antibodies were still circulating in Noitora's system. The infection had moved onto his heart. This rarely happened in the modern world, since infections were treated in a timely fashion. Although they lived in a modern world, that didn't mean that some people weren't stupidly reluctant to have a doctor examine them.

"Rheumatic…oh, so like arthritis? HAHA! Sucks for you, Noitora!" Grimmjow began to point and laugh obnoxiously. Ulquiorra kicked Grimmjow's shin, and that quickly turned Grimmjow's strident laughter into pained whimpers.

"Rheumatic fever occurs when clinically retarded people like Noitora ignore severe strep symptoms, allowing the bacteria to ravage the throat and move on to the heart. The bacteria will, in a sense, infect the heart. This is what happened to Noitora. His heart is now inflamed and he'll need antibiotics for the rest of his life to prevent another recurrence of rheumatic fever. By the way, the damage is irreversible." Szayel paused to adjust his glasses and write something down in a folder. "This is particularly serious because your Marfan syndrome, Noitora," Noitora stopped picking a scab on his arm and pretended to pay attention. "Makes you susceptible to heart diseases and conditions. You already have MVP, and this rheumatic fever will likely aggravate that. To start, I'll be treating you with high doses of penicillin to clear out the remainder of strep. You'll have to take aspirin round the clock for a week, and you'll be on bed rest for three weeks."

"Cool story, bro." Noitora murmured, snorting.

"No, I'm perfectly serious." Szayel said, dropping all pretenses. "You really screwed yourself over this time."

"Eh, fuck it." Noitora said with a wave of his hand. "Give me the drugs and take them."

"You are clearly missing my point." Szayel grumbled. "You _cannot _do anything physical for at least three weeks—no sex or any other illicit activities. No drugs, parties, or late night insanity." Noitora paled and fostered such a horrified expression that he looked as if he had lived through a hellish nightmare. Szayel laughed with great mirth. "I am sending my fraccion to scour your room for drugs and other paraphernalia. All alcohol will be removed from Las Noches and I will call Aizen back here to put a damper on this…distasteful fad of parties that plagues Las Noches."

"That's not fair." Stark said calmly. Grimmjow and Noitora were too shocked to even form a sentence. Szayel was little disturbed to see tears in Grimmjow's blue eyes. "Punishing all of us for something that doesn't even apply to us?"

"That's correct." Szayel said with a cold smile. "You see, Noitora, you have a bizarre blood type. Yours isn't A, B, AB, or O. It's extremely rare, so rare that I have none of it in my lab. Because of this, I don't have a heart here at the ready in case you need a heart transplant. Blood type needs to match tissue. Due to your Marfan syndrome, MVP, and rheumatic fever, you're at a very high risk of contracting an illness or condition that could be deadly."Szayel explained. "Therefore, you must refrain from all physical activity, or anything that increases your heart rate. If anything happens to you, there is nothing I can do. You will die." Szayel paused.

Noitora was now calm. Irritated by his predicament, but calm.

"Well, fuck. Looks like my time is up." Noitora said. "I knew this was all too good to last."

While Szayel took off to go fetch Noitora's drugs, Grimmjow tried very hard to not succumb to genuine tears of despair. He'd miss partying, and alcohol. Halibel was not into partying, so it didn't affect her. Stark was a little bummed—he drank beer occasionally. Noitora was just resigned at this point. Whatever happened was out of his control. Szayel returned and gave him specific, but simple instructions to follow when taking the drugs. Noitora nodded and slid off the examination table and popping the first pill. Grimmjow and Apache followed him, solemn faced.

"Geez, you'd think someone died." Szayel observed. He took back his statement when he noticed Ulquiorra looked oddly pleased. He left with an actual goodbye and a spring in his step. Halibel and Stark talked with Szayel for a little longer and then left. Szayel went straight to bed. Maybe he could sleep off this headache.

When Noitora returned to his bedroom, he found Szayel's fraccion rummaging through drawers, under his bed, closet, and in every little corner of the space. Already, there were bags full of drugs and bottles of vodka. The windows had been flung open to aerate the stuffy room. Tesla was stripping the sheets from Noitora's mattress to be washed, and the floor was being swept and vacuumed. How…strange. Noitora was used to living in a room that would make health inspectors faint. Honestly, it would have been better to set the room on fire. Noitora stood in the doorway, amused at how many people were in there. Then again, he had been living in Gin's room for most of the winter. But it would be better to move back here, since he would be living in a bed for the next three weeks. The plus side to this was that he could have people be his slaves. The cons were obvious. But what could he do that was fun without getting his heart rate up? Sex was out of the question, as well as some video games…fuck. This was going to suck ass.

"Er, Mr. Jiruga?" one of Szayel's more functional fraccion approached Noitora cautiously. He held up a ziplock bag with a few thongs inside. They belonged to Mila Rose, and one of them belonged to Sun Sun. "Are these of any significance to you?"

"No." Noitora snorted. He was about to object to the removal of his water mattress, but figured it would be pointless to object, as Szayel had just walked in armed with a bottle of Bleach and a surgical mask.

"Oh, God. Living conditions in here are abysmal." Szayel said disdainfully. He looked around the room, viscerally disgusted. "Might as well nuke it."

"Don't be stupid." Noitora sniggered. It wasn't THAT bad. Then, one of the Arrancar shrieked and jumped back, pointing frantically at something she had uncovered. Szayel flung a nasty look at Noitora before investigating. Whatever was growing elicited a similar reaction from Szayel. Noitora slipped out of his room at this opportune moment, heading for the kitchen. But there was such a commotion going on in his room he went right back in. A massive cockroach, the size of a chihuahua, was skittering around Noitora's room.

"Kill it!" Szayel shrieked. "Kill it, kill it, kill it—oh, dear God, that thing is huge!" He opened the bottle of bleach and flung it at the roach, only to spill bleach all over the floor.

"Szayel, ever heard of a cero?" Noitora said, disturbed and amused by Szayel's antics.

"No, that'll blow up the room!" Szayel snapped. He frantically patted his side for his sword, but it was not there. Noitora just wanted to watch the hilarity unfold. Ulquiorra, having heard the yelling from down the hall, stormed in and stopped in his tracks when he saw the bug scurrying around. Ulquiorra began a stately promenade toward the roach, gaining speed and widening his strides. Very gracefully, he lifted a leg, aimed at the frantic roach, and punted the thing clear out the window in a fluid, graceful movement. He then gave Szayel a disappointed look. Szayel was at a loss for words. He pointed at Noitora and murmured something, but shook his head and waved a hand.

"F-Fuck, I hate bugs." Szayel said tremulously. "Well, the ugly ones. Insects of that size should not be alive…or even growing in a room."

Ulquiorra left without a word. He did not have time for this. Not only were they mature adults, they were Espada. Behaving this was way ridiculous.

"Haha, that was great, Szayel. You should've seen yourself."

"And you should've cleaned your room!"

"Touché." Noitora conceded, nodding in the direction of Szayel. He had to agree there. Noitora stood around, and in half an hour his room was clean. He had a new mattress, sheets, TV, among other things for entertainment. At one point, Grimmjow teetered into the room, weeping, drunk, begging Szayel to keep the alcohol in Las Noches. Grimmjow had drank the last bit before it was all taken away.

"I don't think so." Szayel said primly, prying Grimmjow's hands off his jacket. Grimmjow was bordering alcoholism. Szayel didn't want to deal with a ravaged liver from something that could have been avoided. Grimmjow collapsed into a tearful heap on the ground. Noitora wanted to laugh, but he couldn't. Szayel looked annoyed.

"Well, Noitora—get in that bed. You'll be there for three weeks." Szayel said with a gesture toward the bed

"Do I get to pee?" Noitora asked flippantly. He simply wanted to see Szayel's reaction.

"No, you can't." Szayel said scathingly. "Of course you can, imbecile."

Noitora sniggered and dumped himself on the mattress. It was too firm. And it smelled new and clean, as well as the pillows. He wanted to ask about his leopard print sheets and fuzzy purple bedding, but he had a strong feeling they had been incinerated. Grimmjow had finally shut up and was crawling out of the room, rambling about how much he hated his life. Szayel approached Noitora and spieled for half an hour about how important it was for him to stay in that bed and take his medications on time. What was on MTV was significantly more interesting, though Noitora did catch a few phrases here and there. All in all, he was just tired.

"Yeah, yeah." Noitora interrupted impatiently. "I got it. Shut up for once."

Szayel gazed at Noitora very seriously. He took a deep breath and said, "Noitora, just do what I say." Noitora nodded and waved a hand unconcernedly. He'd be fine. As long as he had good food, fun, and TV there wouldn't be a problem. Or so he thought.

* * *

I think it's time to wrap this story up and put it to bed, don't you? The chapters I've written are not far ahead of what I've posted. In fact, I don't even have ch 23 done.

My time with Bleach has been fun, but inspiration is plunging. The next two or three chapters will be the last (unless God blesses me with raging inspiration), however, I will warn you which one is the penultimate chapter before I finish it off.

Thanks a lot to everyone who has stuck around thus far. Leave me a review with your thoughts.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 24: I'm on a Boat

* * *

Ulquiorra, as Aizen's favorite, had privileges that benefitted him and only him. Not only was he the youngest, he was also quite strong. The rest of the Arrancar suspected he was Aizen's favorite based on looks, since Ulquiorra's personality was rather frigid and unpleasant. There was some truth to that speculation—something about Ulquiorra's luminous green eyes and chalky white skin seemed to strike people. Or perhaps it was his hair, black as an inkwell—silky and glossy, wispy like steady brushstrokes. That was Noitora's private suspicion. Halibel was the only one who could vouch for him, since she was the only female. "I cannot be attracted to him due to our age difference of nine years, as I not a cougar," she had said when the topic arose, "but his lips close in a most aesthetically pleasing manner." The subject was dropped quickly. Who phrased something so normal so awkwardly?

"Where is that fucker, anyway?" Grimmjow asked, sitting up on the balcony balustrade. He nearly lost his balance and fell down four floors, but regained it, much to Noitora's dismay. Noitora was hoping for some lulz.

March madness had hit and passed. The favorable temperatures had brought up the mood, and the sun was beginning to shed meager rays of light to illuminate the dark, wet sand. Bipolar weather was the highlight of March, with torrential rains, sleet, and warm sunny days, usually in a span of three or four days. But today was a gloriously sunny April day, with a complimentary zephyr to lift lank, sun-desperate hair off of the Espada's shoulders. On the days where the sun was bright, Grimmjow sunbathed after working out.

"Ulquiorra?" Noitora asked. He smiled as a sweet breeze tickled his face. He hadn't realized how long it had been since the sun was out. "Who cares? He's probably still sleeping."

"It's almost noon." Halibel observed. Hell, even Stark was awake—and he was experiencing a brief spurt of motivation. Stark had cleaned his and Halibel's room, done last night's dishes, and decided to clean some more.

"Maybe he's just being socially retarded." Grimmjow snorted.

"He already does that twenty four seven." Noitora guffawed.

"Eh, whatever." Grimmjow waved a hand. Noitora was one hundred percent correct. Stark appeared, holding a platter of sandwiches and soda cans tucked under his arm. Stark smiled a bit—he wasn't into big, happy smiles—and walked over. Stark's pallor had become healthier just from being outside today. If Aizen saw them, he'd be extremely happy. In fact, he would see them later—Aizen had scheduled a meeting for twelve fifteen sharp.

;

;

Halibel sprinted into the kitchen and ripped the fridge open. The first thing her eyes landed upon was a loaf of bread. She jerked it out of the fridge, tore it open, and shoved three slices in her mouth. Hunger was tearing her apart from within to the point where she could think of nothing more than food and feel nothing more than pain. That, and a monstrous headache was threatening to create a fissure in her head. She was fairly hungry, after all.

Noitora was standing in the doorway, gaping at the ordeal. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open as he watched Halibel stuff her face unabashedly. Damn. All he wanted was to get a bit of grub to hold him off until dinner. Admittedly, he was a bit afraid of…intruding.

"Halibel?" he finally choked out.

"Noitora…!" she gasped. Halibel looked down at the half eaten bread loaf and hastily threw it into the fridge. She casually leaned against the kitchen island, brushing bread crumbs off her bosom. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine." He said warily, shuffling in. "And you? Other than fucking starving, that is."

Halibel colored with humiliation, but kept her head high. She had been in good spirits lately, energetic and eager to do things around Las Noches. The weather simply uplifted her.

"I'm well. I've started exercising more." She replied.

Noitora bit his tongue—Halibel didn't look any thinner, or fitter. In fact, she looked a tad plumper. She was still absurdly curvy and busty, however. And Noitora would've said something, but when he told Mila Rose a few months ago she looked chubbier, Mila Rose didn't talk to him for a week (the week, in fact, of her period). He had learned the hard way. Besides, that was something for Stark to point out as her husband, not Noitora. So Noitora simply nodded.

Halibel mused. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and took a long gulp from it after she popped the Tylenol in her mouth.

"Uh-huh." Noitora raised an eyebrow dubiously but said nothing more. He decided it was time to leave, so he returned to his room, only to meet up with Stark along the way. He looked more awake than usual. Noitora greeted him by holding his fist out for Stark to bump. He did so halfheartedly.

"Don't piss your wife off." Noitora warned. "She fucking ate a whole loaf of bread in like one minute flat."

"Oh."Stark's eyebrows went up. "That's…not normal. She's hungry more often than not nowadays."

"Do you think—eh, never mind. Let me rephrase that—when was the last time you two fucked?"

Horror crept up Stark's face at Noitora's comment. Noitora smirked. Had he hit a nerve?

"Shit…don't imply cataclysmic situations." Stark muttered. He rubbed his eyes and muttered something. Halibel's last pregnancy was more hellish for him than for her. He was the sole victim of mood swings, whims, and rants about how sick Halibel had felt in the morning. Oh, but Noitora loved hearing about the nuances of other people's sex lives—he was particularly interested in Stark and Halibel. Damn, he should've become a sex therapist long ago.

Today, the kitchen was livelier than usual. Gin and Noitora had become best friends over the past four months, and the two sat at the table, eating. Gin wasn't very hungry (he never was) and fed intriguing rumors about other people into Noitora's ear in a hushed whisper. Twice Noitora had nearly choked from laughing so hard.

"'Sup, bitches?" Grimmjow said with a little nod upon swaggering over to them. Today, Grimmjow's get-up consisted of plaid boxers, black knee socks, and pink flip flops that probably belonged to Apache, complete with a tight gray wifebeater shirt. A cheap plastic medal hung around his neck. On his head a violently orange baseball cap was placed a jaunty angle, and he sported a pair of aviator sunglasses.

"My dick," Noitora said snidely, sarcastically. "And your lack of fashion sense. I like the shirt though, and the cap is pretty sweet."

"Thanks, Wal-Mart for three bucks." Grimmjow plucked at his shirt self importantly. Grimmjow was risking privileges if he continued to walk around out of uniform with Aizen inhabiting Las Noches. Nobody was used to him being present for more than two weeks, and the fact he had been around for three had put a massive damper on all of Noitora's raging late night parties. Nobody knew what to do anymore. Ulquiorra had taken to feeling extremely uncomfortable around Aizen, so he was twice as tense as usual and rarely ventured beyond the doors of his room or library. Aizen's absence prompted him to walk around aimlessly or stand outside on cool days, staring at the horizon, lost in thought. According to Szayel, Ulquiorra had developed conditional insomnia. Speaking of Ulquiorra…Ulquiorra was perusing a newspaper nearby. He looked up from his book and grimaced very slightly at Grimmjow's taste in clothing. Ulquiorra felt he'd vomit if he looked at this being that stood before him for much longer.

"Guys, I'm bored. Let's play golf." Grimmjow suggested suddenly. "Ulquiorra, come with us or die."

"I'd rather die, thank you." Ulquiorra said airily.

"You _are _coming with us." Noitora said savagely.

"Golf? But there are sand dunes outside." Gin said flatly.

"No shit." Grimmjow spat. "It's a desert. So, yeah, golf clubs are in my room. I stole 'em from some guy in Florida last week. They're badass."

"Yup. By the way, Szayel's going to make us help, so suck Aizen's dick for a mission so you can get out of it."

Ulquiorra ignored Noitora's appalling and untrue implication before giving a decisive shake of his head.

"Preposterous." He muttered. Ulquiorra wielded a golf club rather awkwardly and sighed before taking a plunge into the game. Some time later:

"FORE!" Grimmjow screamed, waving his club around like a propeller. A white ball was soaring in a neat arc over the dunes of Hueco Mundo. Grimmjow, Ulquiorra, Gin, and Noitora had been golfing for seven hours. It was already dark, but that would not stop Grimmjow.

"Retard," Noitora bashed Grimmjow's head with his arm. "You yell fore when you hit a golf ball in someone's direction."

"So?" Grimmjow snapped, rubbing his throbbing head. "Tiger Woods yells _fore_play."

Noitora approved of this statement with a nod and Gin snickered, smirk widening. Ulquiorra rolled his eyes at the puerility. Grimmjow was soon to turn twenty four. Noitora was twenty seven. The two needed to grow up.

"Watch out for his golf balls." Gin added.

"And that massive club." Noitora said seductively. The three of them guffawed stupidly and awkwardly patted each other on the back. Following that, they golfed for a little longer, and retreated to Las Noches.

;

;

Stark cracked an eye open and gazed at the clock on his bedside table. The red numbers bore the time of two forty one. Why had he woken up…? He heard noises next to him. Halibel was tossing and turning fitfully in the bed. She sighed loudly and gave the covers a strong jerk, ripping them off of Stark, who was not the least bit surprised. Typical. She always took the covers. Stark grabbed the corner and pulled them back over him firmly. Not even five seconds later they were ripped off of him. Stark growled. It was way too early for this. He rolled over and faced Halibel, who kicked the sheets off the bed and lay there, breathing hard and shivering. Anxiety began to smolder within him. Stark prodded her. She brushed his hand away and hurriedly murmured something.

"Tia?" he said worriedly. "Tia, wake up."

Halibel's shot open and she propped herself up on her elbows. Halibel gazed at Stark with wide, glassy eyes. Stark placed a hand on her arm. Under her skin a fever was blazing. Rivulets of sweat cascaded down the side of her face and the pale light illuminated her colored cheeks. Her lower lip trembled and a pained grimace was in place of her normally calm expression. She was shaking all over.

"Stark?" she questioned hoarsely, breathlessly. "I think I'm dying."

"What?" Stark muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Why is that?"

Halibel stared at him miserably and slowly sat up. She did not reply immediately. Halibel actually looked like she was about to cry. She raised a hand and placed it on the side of her head. She muttered something unintelligible, and silence congealed between them. Stark rolled out of bed and walked around to her side of the bed.

"What's wrong?" he asked worriedly, placing a hand on her back. Apprehension swelled in him like an aneurysm. He could, for a moment, hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

"My head. My neck." She murmured. "I feel terrible."

"Do you want me to get Szayel?" he asked tensely.

"I don't know." She whispered helplessly. "I don't know. No—just…no." Halibel swung her legs over the side of the bed and wobbled in the direction of the bathroom. Stark walked by her, arms ready to catch her. Halibel seemed to be close to keeling over.

;

;

"Oh, God." Stark muttered. He hoisted Halibel up and carried her out of the room. Where would Szayel be on a night like this? His circadian rhythm had long been ravaged, and his erratic sleep patterns made it impossible to predict his whereabouts. As Stark wandered the dark hallways, Halibel gazed blankly at the dark ceiling, muttering things under her breath. Stark assumed it was delirium. He hoped it was delirium. Stark first came across Ulquiorra's room. He kicked the door open and Ulquiorra rose from the bed mechanically. The sliver of light that seeped into Ulquiorra's room illuminated his pallid face and the dark circles, stained under his eyes.

"Yes?" he said testily.

"Ulquiorra, find Szayel, please." Stark said urgently. He was slightly out of breath. Halibel wasn't particularly light. In a addition to height, muscles, and curviness added to her weight. "There's something wrong with Halibel."

"What?" Ulquiorra switched the light on and squinted. When he saw her limp in Stark's arms, Ulquiorra shouldered his bathrobe (monogrammed) and flanked Stark. He turned to Stark and said, "Take her to the lab. I'll find Szayel."

Stark and Ulquiorra parted and Stark dutifully scampered to Szayel's lab. Luckily, the heavy doors were open. However, the lab itself was dim. Stark's heart sunk. The one time he really needed him was the time he was not there. A few seconds later, the door opened and Noitora popped his head in. He had glow sticks around his neck, wrists, legs, and streamers wrapped around his body. Incredibly, he was sober.

"Did Halibel catch the little death?" Noitora snickered. He raised an eyebrow at Halibel in Stark's arms.

"Hey, fuck you." Stark snapped. He was in no mood to deal with Noitora's sexual implications. "In case you haven't noticed, she's sick."

"Really?" Noitora approached Halibel cautiously. She barely acknowledged him. Drowsiness was weighing her down, a fact that only contributed to Stark's tension. Noitora blinked in shock. He could tell simply by looking at her that illness had overtaken her. Grimmjow stumbled into the room. Shutter shades were fashionably perched on his nose. He too was sober, but reeked of a party.

"Whoa." Grimmjow did not smile. Concern swept over his face. A yawning Szayel shuffled in later with Ulquiorra on his tail. Judging by the lock on Ulquiorra's face, Ulquiorra had had to use physical force to rouse Szayel. He pointed wordlessly to a gurney nearby. Stark set her down on it.

Szayel scrutinized Halibel for any obvious deformities. The sweat on her brow and colored cheeks were an obvious sign of a fever, and the droop of her eyelids raised a red flag. And fevers were the elusive, equivocating bastards of medicine—they'd often tell you what was wrong—high body temperature—but not _why_ the temperature was so high, which was necessary to treat the illness.

"Halibel, I'm going to need you to stay awake." He said sternly. Szayel leaned his weight on the gurney and took off at a steady walk-run speed with the rest of them flanking him. Stark grabbed Halibel's hand. It was frigid and clammy. Odd—the rest of her body was hot and sweaty. He mentioned this to Szayel, who simply nodded. Upon arriving in the exam room, Szayel flipped the light switch and Halibel recoiled by flinging an arm over her eyes. Szayel and Ulquiorra exchanged glances. A touch of photophobia, perhaps? He wheedled a thermometer into her mouth. The thermometer beeped and Szayel withdrew it from her mouth. For a moment, his countenance reflected nothing. He frowned and his gaze snapped up back to Stark. A fever of oh six point three degrees Fahrenheit is a cause for concern.

"One oh six degrees Fahrenheit." Szayel said airily. Noitora made a face, Grimmjow whimpered, and Ulquiorra had no visible reaction. He did, however, look up at the ceiling.

"Does the light bother you?" Szayel asked Halibel. Szayel pointed to a drawer and said to Noitora, "You're good with needles. Get a blood test." Noitora smirked confidently and scampered over to the drawers. Not even a minute later Noitora was holding the butterfly needle in gloved fingers. Halibel's veins were fairly prominent. He had no problem locating a vein thick as a garden hose in her arm.

"Yes." She replied. "It makes my head hurt more."

"So, you have a fever and headache, plus photophobia. Anything else?"

He pressed the stethoscope to her chest and instructed her to breathe deeply. All was clear. Her heartbeat was a bit fast, but not to the point where it was tachycardia. Szayel flung the stethoscope back over his neck and laced the blood pressure cuff around her arm. Blood pressure was normal, maybe slightly elevated, but not something worth taking note of. Hormones in the female body cause odd changes sometimes. Noitora proudly showed him the vial of dark blood he had collected and handed it to Verona, who would run the test.

"She threw up _everywhere _before we left the room." Stark said with a shudder. That was mildly traumatizing. It gushed out of her like a fountain. Grimmjow made a face and muttered "Ew!".

"And your neck?" Szayel asked her, feeling her lymph nodes. No remarkable findings there. Szayel hadn't felt someone with such a high fever before. Simply by prodding her here and there the tips of his fingers were burning.

"Hurts." Halibel said weakly.

One more thing. Szayel was almost positive she had bacterial meningitis. He lifted her shirt up and did not expect to see what he saw.

"Shit." He said in an awed tone. His eyebrows went up in genuine surprise and the corners of his mouth gave an involuntarily quirk downward. He looked like he was about to say something. A spinal tap would definitely be in order. Hell, there wasn't even time for that. Antibiotics first— an empirical diagnosis. Szayel was almost certain this was meningitis, but without the results of the tests in his hands nothing was for sure. Regardless, the mortality of meningitis was twenty to thirty percent, and treatment had to be started now.

"What is that? Are those…scabs?" Noitora demanded, pointing at the odd markings on Halibel's abdomen.

"No, bruises…" Ulquiorra corrected, looking away.

"What the fuck?" Grimmjow demanded, cringing as he jabbed at her stomach.

"Close, Noitora. That's the classic meningitis rash."

"Meningitis?" Halibel demanded. She looked down at her blotched abdomen. Szayel pushed her down and ordered Grimmjow to start an IV. Grimmjow knew how; he had done it before. Not that he enjoyed it. Meanwhile, Szayel was sticking leads to Halibel's chest. Her heart rate and breathing would have to be monitored. A pulse ox was clamped on her finger and numbers popped up on the monitor screen. At once, alarms started ringing—O2 Sat was lower than normal, heart rate and blood pressure off, and breath rate was irregular.

As for antibiotics…Szayel patted his pockets, searching for an injection. He had to have some form of antibiotics on his person. Alas, nothing. With that, he sent Ulquiorra straight to the storeroom.

"Vancomycin and Cefotaxime." Szayel told him, pointing across the hall. Ulquiorra raised an eyebrow at the odd names, but said nothing. Those were powerful antibiotics used to treat meningitis."They're in the freezer. Hurry up!"

"Szayel…" Noitora pointed to the monitor. "There's something wrong."

Szayel spotted the problem immediately. Halibel was losing consciousness and her heart rate was falling quickly. Stark was standing at the foot of the bed, catatonic, ashen, gray eyes rooted on Halibel. Ulquiorra ran into the room, holding two large, fat bags of clear liquid. He nimbly threw them to Grimmjow, who caught the bags with ease. With a bit of guesswork, he connected the tube to the bag and flipped the stopcock. The translucent liquid began to flow steadily down the tube, but that would not be enough. Ulquiorra was sent to retrieve more.

"Grimmjow, remember the CVC, that needle in your chest after your appendicitis?" Szayel asked urgently. "A kit is in the cabinet over there. Start one—directions are enclosed."

Grimmjow, at first, reflected anger, horror, and finally, intrigue. But he shut his gaping mouth and did as told, confidence searing through his veins. Noitora decided to help, because he was a natural with needles. They seemed to be extensions of his appendages, he handled them so gracefully. Grimmjow decided to make himself useful and force an oxygen mask onto her face, for her oxygen levels were plunging. Halibel tried to pry the mask off of her, but Grimmjow would not allow it.

Ilforte appeared in the doorway, with Apache in tow. Apache gasped loudly when she saw Halibel soaking in her own sweat on the exam table. Ilforte took over the CVC for Grimmjow and Noitora, and Apache planted herself next to Szayel, who was coaxing Halibel onto her side. Her shirt was cut with scissors and her naturally tan, smooth back was exposed. Szayel waved his assistants (Grimmjow, Ulquiorra, Noitora) over as he ran a finger down her spine, locating the vertebrae he'd puncture between. To double check, he placed a few fingers at the top of her hip, and drew a line over her back, just brushing over the lumbar space between the fourth and fifth lumbar vertebrae.

"Noitora, spread the iodine. I'll be right back." Szayel walked over to Stark, at the foot of the bed, eyes wide, rooted to the spot by fear. Szayel leaned close and said, "Stark, make sure she stays awake. You must not let her fall asleep."

Stark gave a shaky nod and mechanically lumbered to Halibel's side, stroking her hair and murmuring things to her. She was relatively unresponsive, but winced when Szayel injected the local anesthesia. Her eyes were dull and glassy. Stark had seen that look before—in cadavers.

Meanwhile, Grimmjow watched, horrified, as Szayel insert a needle about three inches into Halibel's spine, and nearly screamed when he saw a turbid fluid drip out of the needle into the attached vial at a steady rate. Szayel made a disapproving sound in his throat. He didn't even bother collecting a second vial. This was bacterial meningitis. He withdrew the needle and smacked a bandaid over the pinprick. Now all they could do was wait. Her fever had lowered a fraction, and Ilforte was injection steroids to keep inflammation down. She was wheeled straight to the ICU, barely conscious, and then Grimmjow popped the question.

"Wait. What is meningitis, anyway?"

"Meningitis is the inflammation and swelling of the protective covering of the brain and spinal cord, which are called the meninges," Szayel answered. "Meninges is a collective term for the dura mater, arachnoid mater, and pia mater.

"Cool story, bro." Grimmjow smirked. "No, but seriously. How the hell did Halibel get it?"

"Halibel's is bacterial. According to the blood test, her case was caused by two bacteria." Szayel answered. "In fact, I'll be taking more of her blood shortly."

"What was the cloudy stuff that was leaking out of her back?" Apache asked curiously, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears.

"Oh, that was cerebrospinal fluid!" Szayel said. "Yes…CSF is the liquid the brain floats in. This liquid cushions the brain and spinal cord. Normal CSF is supposed to be clear, but as you saw, Halibel's was opaque. That was due to high—abnormal—levels of protein, which is a marker of bacterial meningitis."

"Adults don't normally get it, do they?" Noitora asked. He leaned over and pinched Halibel on the arm to keep her awake. She blankly gazed at Noitora and then at Stark, who was standing over her.

"No." Szayel shook his head. His bright eyes flickered to the monitor, which blared mild warning alarms. But there was not more to do except wait. Her oxygen levels were satisfactory. Halibel _seemed _to be getting better with the medication, but she could quickly crash and die.

;

;

Hours passed and the sun rose. Halibel seemed to have stabilized; she was no longer delirious, though she did have a fever. Stark sat with her the whole time, and even watched ten minutes ago when Szayel drew blood for the fourth time that night. The crook of Halibel's elbow bore red pinpricks to mark the many needlesticks she had endured. Not that she minded.

"I'm tired," she sighed, shifting in her bed.

"I don't blame you," Stark chuckled. "How are you feeling?"

Halibel waved a shaking hand the air in a yawing motion and said, "Not quite there yet."

"You really scared me last night." Stark muttered, running a hand through his thick, wavy hair.

"Didn't mean to." Halibel replied with a conservative smile that reached her tired turquoise eyes. "Do you think I can sleep yet?"

"Hmm...no." Stark answered. "But then again, I slept when Szayel told me not to after surgeries, so go ahead. I won't tell. So," Stark bent over her and planted a sweet, relieved kiss on her mouth, "just don't scare me again. All right? Sleep well, my dear."

* * *

Guys, you should know this by now. I _love _StarkxHali. I should write a fic for them...

Next chapter will be the last and will probably be out sooner.

This chapter was written so long ago, but I never finished it, for some reason.

As of late, I don't have patience for math or science, and I'm strongly leaning toward writing as a profession. It's a bit of a crisis for me.

I will include a little bonus next chapter as well. And you'll see what that is.

If you want to see more, review. I'll become motivated.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24: The End

* * *

Fives weeks had passed uneventfully since Halibel's illness and brought Hueco Mundo into late May. Sultry, tropical temperatures lifted the moods well past elation. There was a constant, warm breeze that would've rustled leaves if trees were around, and one could almost hear the sound of the ocean even though there was no water, save for the one in the pipes in Hueco Mundo. Because of the temperatures, Halibel's fraccion had busted out the bikinis, scant clothing, extra alcohol, and volleyballs (not that they didn't do that in the winter). Noitora often left Hueco Mundo for the real world to "conduct business"—Stark suspected drug or prostitute trafficking. Whatever seedy jobs he worked had a tendency of bringing in a nice sum of money. Grimmjow, unbeknownst, had stolen a baby cheetah from some zoo in Australia and was raising it in his room. Its name was Brucie. Ulquiorra hadn't done anything remotely interesting, as usual, though it was speculated that he had taken a liking for the nice weather and had been caught sitting on the windowsill surveying Hueco Mundo's white sands several times. Szayel disappeared for one month and returned from his cave (lab) with a new smirk on his face and a relaxed air about him, but refused to give a detailed answer when asked why he was in such a good mood. All he said was that he had completed an experiment he had been working on for ten years.

"Congrats, fucker, but who the hell spends ten years on something I could do in ten minutes?" Grimmjow had snorted at hearing the news some two weeks ago. He took this opportunity to pop the collar of his jacket even higher than it was already popped.

;;;;;

Ulquiorra was rudely awakened by an explosion coming from outside. But he didn't even bother removing the pillow from his face. It was probably Grimmjow being stupid and blowing shit up, which was nothing worth acknowledging. Ulquiorra wondered what time it was, so he removed the pillow from his face and recoiled—bright sunlight was streaming through his window, illuminating his predominantly white room to the point where his eyes watered and burned. He propped himself up on his elbows and squinted—the clock read seven forty seven am. Ulquiorra, in the past months, had transitioned from diurnal to nocturnal, though today, that cycle would be broken. Typically, he went to sleep around three or four and woke up at around noon. It was a good lifestyle for him—most of Las Noches was asleep in the hours he was awake, meaning Las Noches was quiet and deserted, unless Noitora was throwing a wild party, which happened more often than Ulquiorra would've liked. But, as Aizen's favorite, Ulquiorra slept in a large room on the eighth floor of Las Noches, and had a view of the sprawling desert below him. He had the plushiest, largest bed, biggest bathroom, the works. The eighth floor was quiet in comparison to the third, where the media room ("cinema"), Noitora's room, and the gym was. That fool threw the craziest parties nearly every night.

Aizen's meeting started in about twenty five minutes. That gave Ulquiorra plenty of time to shower and contemplate his hatred of everything and everyone. He stripped his pajamas and stepped into the shower. The hot water cascaded down his back and steam permeated the whole bathroom. Ulquiorra felt an overwhelming sense of relaxation at that point. But he quickly snapped back to reality and washed his silky hair. The finishing touch was the body wash. Ulquiorra shut off the water and grabbed a towel nearby. He wrapped it around his hips and stepped out of the shower. But his heel slipped, and before he knew it, Ulquiorra was lying on the floor of his bathroom, air knocked out of him and ringing in his ears accompanied by excruciating pain in the back of his head.

But today, on the twenty-fifth day of May, which happened to be Stark's birthday, Aizen would have them cooped up in a meeting.

"Oh, my!" Aizen purred, waggling his eyebrows seductively upon sashaying into the conference room. "All of you look quite attractive today. Don't look so sad— it'll be a short one, I promise," Aizen cooed as he twirled a stand of highlighted hair around his finger. "After all, I want you all to go back to being beautiful people."

Noitora felt vomit rise and Halibel felt extremely awkward. A look of despair and disdain passed over Ulquiorra's steady countenance and Stark just sighed hopelessly. Ulquiorra grimaced when Grimmjow took his assigned seat in front of him.

"Bitch, turn that frown upside down!" Grimmjow yelled, spit flying from his lips. He jabbed a finger at Ulquiorra.

"Be quiet." Ulquiorra snapped. His head was pounding with tiredness and what he suspected was a mild concussion. Simultaneous buzzing and ringing in his ears was threatening to split his head in half.

On Ulquiorra's left side sat Stark, who sat next to Halibel. Yami and Zomari were at the foot of the table. Aaroniero's seat, the last seat on the right side of the table was empty, because, well, he was dead. On Grimmjow's right was Szayel— he had arrived just in time for Aizen's absurdly prolonged meetings. Noitora, who sat on his right, greeted Szayel with a 'sup head-nod. Because he had the type of personality made for fucking with Barragan, who sat on his right, a very easy and entertaining to do, meetings were usually interesting. All in all, it was a nice seating arrangement. Aizen cleared his throat and took a sip of tea.

"Gin, Tousen, and I will be leaving for Curacao in exactly one week, on the first of June. We will return on the twelfth." Noitora looked up the ceiling to make fast calculations. That gave him eleven nights for potential parties and ten days for other illicit activities.

Szayel was analyzing Aizen's outfit because he had finished assessing Noitora's overbite. Aizen looked extra fagalicious today—Chanel sunglasses were propped up on his head, standing out against the streaks of blond highlights in his brown hair. A scarf was draped casually over his neck and his jacket was more open than usual. When he smiled, his teeth were so white it took all of Szayel's self control to keep from laughing. Back to Aizen's clothing—the only reason white suited him was because of Aizen's synthetic tan. It created nice contrast. Now, the only reason white suited Szayel was because lab coats were white, and his bright eyes made for a fine improvement. Szayel quickly withdrew from his feminine side and decided to count how many times Stark yawned.

"I'd also like to raise the issue of shampoo fights in the showers." Aizen said sternly. "I thought I had solved this problem by installing your own bathrooms, but apparently not. Tell me, Grimmjow, what is so fun about throwing shampoo at people in the shower?"

"Soap and shamp, for your information. And it's fun because people slip on it and it hurts if you get it in your eye." For emphasis, Grimmjow pointed to his bright blue eyes.

"Well, so does cum." Noitora muttered, checking his text messages. Szayel suppressed a grin at his wit.

"Plus, it's not like we fuck each other in the shower." Grimmjow said bluntly. "We're all wearing bathing suits, am I right, Noitora?" At this, Aizen looked appalled. Which fragment of the sentence he was appalled by was a mystery.

"Duh. Otherwise that would be total and complete faggotry." He finally looked up from his phone. "It's also fun because people get hurt. You know, shamp in the eye, slipping on suds, the usual."

"Schadenfreude, fuck yeah!" Grimmjow did a fist pump.

Aizen suddenly looked drained. He fired another question at these idiots.

"Right, but is there a purpose?"

"Nah, it's just for the lulz." Grimmjow said.

"So you throw shampoo and soap at each other for fun." Aizen said blankly.

"I'd also like to add that shampoo as well as soap _is _for hygiene, am I correct?" Noitora said in a smug, cold tone.

"Correct." Aizen said tersely, staring at Noitora.

"If that's the case, then wouldn't you prefer us to be clean at the expense of the showers, also cleaned by the soap that had been thrown around?"

"Oh, burn, Lord Aizen, burn." Grimmjow said fervently. Stark smiled and rolled his eyes. Noitora was, by nature, a debater of sorts. Aizen had been rendered speechless. He obviously lost the argument, so decided to raise another issue.

"Hopefully this will prompt a better explanation—why does your corridor smell so strange, Noitora?"

"Meth lab, raves, alcohol, drugs. Get over it. Do you have any real problems to discuss with us?" Noitora asked, shooting Aizen an insincere smirk. Aizen was beginning to get annoyed. He dropped all pretenses and glared intently at Noitora once he remembered that Noitora had indeed been throwing an insane rave last night. As far as raves went, Noitora's were absolutely insane. The fact he had the balls to throw such a party with Aizen around was both appalling and worth idolizing.

Gin fist bumped Grimmjow as a greeting. At once, Grimmjow moved over in his seat and allowed Gin to sit with him. The two began to whisper under Aizen's senseless blathering, giggling at internet memes and Aizen's teeth. Once Aizen dismissed them, they kind of sat there, hardly believing they were free. Then, Ulquiorra sneezed.

"Haha! You sneeze like a woman!" Grimmjow yelled, pointing at Ulquiorra.

"Could you have allergies, Ulquiorra?" Szayel said, waggling his eyebrows.

"Allergies? There are no plants in Hueco Mundo." Ulquiorra scoffed, glancing outside to prove his point.

"But there's dust and debris floating in the air." Szayel added a spirit-finger like motion with his hands for effect. Ulquiorra was sickened by the happiness blooming on Szayel's face. "Along with other little particles."

"That's ridic—" Ulquiorra paused, left eye twitching. He held a finger up in a gesture of 'wait a second' and turned away, sneezing violently only moments later. Szayel chuckled and held a tissue out to Ulquiorra, who ignored him.

"You have a pretty sneeze, by the way."

"Absurd. Sneezes are not attractive in any way."

"But yours are quiet and...graceful. I hear the ocean breeze in them." Szayel insisted, placing a hand on Ulquiorra's shoulder. Ulquiorra's green eyes strayed to Szayel's hand, rested on his shoulder. Szayel pulled back when he felt Ulquiorra's muscles tense ominously.

"Gin gets allergies all the time. But he doesn't have a nice sneeze." Szayel said. "Anyway, if you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Yes, I will find you in the padded cell." Ulquiorra riposted.

"Ha ha. Very funny." Szayel said sarcastically, eyes narrowing. "Actually, I don't have much to do right now."

"Oh, really?" Halibel said conversationally. She sipped a bit of iced tea and gazed at Szayel expectantly. Today, Halibel wore her hair in a neat, short, stylish ponytail. She had a light perfume on, or perhaps that was the sun block she was wearing. A breezy swimsuit coverup was over her well fitted bikini, for in an hour she'd take off for St. Lucia in the Caribbean with Stark.

"Yes. I already know everything there is to know, and while I still have research to do, it's not as pressing." Szayel said with a nod.

"So, are you going to get a hobby, then?" Noitora asked curiously.

"That's what I'm working on."

"Take up knitting," Grimmjow suggested. "Or carpentry. What about painting?"

"Clubbing," Noitora smirked.

"Alcoholism," Gin piped up, nudging Grimmjow in the ribs.

"Those aren't hobbies, imbeciles." Szayel said stonily. "Those are addictions."

"Call it what you want," Grimmjow shrugged, rising from the table. "It's fun shit to do."

"You'll be fun to detox," Szayel snapped.

;;;;;

But not three days passed before a garganta opened and out came Stark, looking terrified and stressed, with a very placid Halibel, bloodstains on her shirt. Unfortunately, she choose to open the garganta up in the media room, where everyone happened to hanging out.

"Is that blood?"

"What happened?"

"Did St. Lucia suck that much?"

"I was attacked by a shark," Halibel said flatly. She lifted her shirt and showed them the neat set of bite marks that started just beneath her breast and arced down to her hip and onto her back. "But not to worry. I told him to go away and he did."

"Holy shit. Isn't that like friendly fire?" Grimmjow asked.

"Are you in pain?"

"No, it's not too bad." Halibel said with a wave of her hand. "It's healing quite nicely, don't you think?"

"It'll leave some epic scars behind, but I would've pissed my pants." Grimmjow said enthusiastically. He himself was very proud of the scars painted on the canvas of his muscled chest. Obviously, he was more proud of battle scars than pansy ass surgery scars.

"By the way, Grimmjow, Brucie is growing quickly." Szayel remarked offhandedly. He smirked when Grimmjow blanched and lost all signs of happiness.

"How did you know about Brucie?" Grimmjow asked gruffly. "He's nice! Don't judge him just because he's a cheetah!"

"Well, Ulquiorra smelled a wild animal." Szayel explained. "And he suggested I check it out. So I did, and I found Brucie. And I'm not judging him, Grimmjow—he was quite friendly."

"Damn, he's like a pregnant woman. I forgot that Ulquiorra has a freakish sense of a smell." Grimmjow mumbled mutinously.

"Yes, he's quite batty," Stark snickered. "If you know what I mean."

The group tittered nervously, since Ulquiorra was standing _right there._ Yes, Ulquiorra was quite…odd. He had been found napping in the library the other day, and it had been revealed that he had an endearing habit of sleeping with his arms crossed diagonally over his chest, like the fabled vampire, not the faggy vampires that plague pop culture today. Pics were taken and were put on Facebook, following standard protocol.

"Anyway, Ulquiorra won't tell Aizen." Szayel chuckled. "Ulquiorra would rather have a cheetah wandering around than talk to Aizen."

"That," Ulquiorra said under his breath, "is true."

"So how did you get attacked?" Noitora asked.

"Two days ago I was swimming in the beautiful blue waters when something large grabbed me and pulled me down. It was a shark. I told him to leave at once, and he apologized and swam away." Halibel explained shortly. "Unfortunately, he did bite me deep enough for me to bleed. But I'm all right."

"Scars are fucking cool, bro." Grimmjow puffed his chest out. "You'll love em. And you barely have any scars, anyway."

That was true. All she had was on her leg from that horrific femur break and the C-section scar that was hidden and hardly noticeable, mainly because Stark was the only person with permission to get that close to her.

"For now, I think I'll just relax here." Halibel said calmly. "St. Lucia can wait."

"And Aizen's gone, too, so it's all good." Grimmjow pointed out. "Have you met Brucie yet?"

"I have not." Halibel replied.

"You're meeting him right now." Grimmjow grabbed her arm and dragged her to his room while everyone else tagged along. Grimmjow eased the door to his room open and gently called Brucie's name. He waved everyone in and turned the lights on, revealing a tiny little cheetah, just waking up from a nap, curled up on Grimmjow's bed.

"Brucie, you cute son of a bitch!" Grimmjow cried. He sprinted to his bed and leapt onto it, almost killing the cheetah in the process. Grimmjow gave Brucie's head of messy hair a kiss. And then, Brucie meowed. Or whatever it is a cheetah cub does. This prompted Grimmjow to go into full estrogen mode, which involved squealing and giggling…Noitora was recording the ordeal on his phone, and, following standard protocol, would be put on Facebook right away.

Brucie's ears pricked up at seeing the visitors, so he lithely jumped off the bed (to Grimmjow's dismay) and strutted over to the visitors, sniffing their ankles and even pawing at some decoration on Halibel's fancy sandals. He peered up at them curiously with huge, expressive brown eyes and meowed once again.

"He's absolutely adorable," Halibel gushed, stooping down to pet Brucie.

"And he's gentleman, too." Grimmjow added.

"Too bad you're not." Noitora said snidely. Brucies turned his gaze to Noitora.

Szayel politely excused himself from the group. Yes, Brucie was very cute, but Szayel wasn't a huge fan of cats. So he ambled to his room, since he hadn't been there in weeks. Dust had settled on his furniture and on his stacks of books and old contraptions. Szayel sighed contentedly and collapsed onto his bed, smiling, somewhat dazed. Yes, his uranium experiment was complete after ten years of round-the-clock work and crushing stress. How nice it was to be free. If Szayel wanted to, he'd take another experiment up, but since he was already some fifty years ahead of the human scientific community, he could wait. Right now, traveling didn't sound too bad, and neither did recreational swimming or painting. Szayel's brain was filled to the brim with ideas and inane thoughts, so he closed his eyes and let them run wild. It was not five minutes before rapid footsteps interrupted his dreams.

"Szayel!" Grimmjow sounded frantic. "Brucie just mauled Noitora! Come quick, he's dying! Oh, the humanity—"

Szayel promptly sat up and put his glasses on. While his scientific research had come to an end (for now) his role as the sole doctor, surgeon, and mortician of Las Noches was a lifelong commitment. A very fun commitment. Dr. Grantz was in. And Dr. Grantz would always be in.

"I'll be right there." he said.

* * *

The end. The crackiness was just stuff I wanted to get in, as this is the last chapter. Though I may return to this fic. In fact, I probably will.

Thanks to all of you who read, reviewed, favorited, and alerted. Four hundred plus reviews is an honor. Now that I've ended my most popular stories, I'm a bit sad because I will not be hearing from everyone as much. But stay tuned, I might have another little Bleach fic soon since I'm so comfortable with writing the Espada.

Since it is the last chapter, I request reviews. Just oblige me for once!


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